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BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

Iohn  Halifax,Gentleman. 


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John  3v/ett 


A  SERIES 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  HALIFAX," 

AND  OTHERS. 


Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  beg  to  announce 
that  they  have  completed  arrangements  with  the 
Author  of  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  for  the  pub- 
lication, at  short  intervals,  of  a  Series  of  Books 
specially  prepared  for  Girls  —  girls  of  all  ages 
between  eight  and  eighteen.  The  Volumes  will 
be  beautifully  printed,  and  handsomely  and  uni- 
formly bound  in  Cloth  extra,  with  Illustrations 
after  original  designs  by  Frolich,  Sydney  Hall,  and 
other  artists.  They  will  be  admirably  suited  for 
Families  and  School  and  Birthday  Presents. 


ADDRESS. 

I  am  told  every  where  of  the  great  want  there  is  of  Girls' 

Books.    For  boys  and  little  children  there  are  plenty,  but  for 

growing-up  girls,  the  mothers  of  the  next  generation,  almost 

none ;  none,  at  least,  that  can  give  them,  at  their  most  im- 


Books  for  Girls. 


pressible  age,  a  true  impression  of  what  life  is  and  what  it 
may  be  made. 

People  seem  to  think  that  "  any  body  "  can  write  for  the 
young  ;  whereas  there  are  few  kinds  of  writing  more  difficult. 
It  requires,  first,  that  utmost  art,  ars  celare  artem  ;  next,  quick 
sympathy,  large  experience,  and  exceeding  caution.  Yet  all 
these  at  times  fail,  for  lack  of  some  mysterious  key  to  that 
most  mysterious  piece  of  God's  handiwork — an  opening  hu- 
man soul. 

I  have  written  books  for  twenty-four  years  ;  books  which 
— I  say  it  not  in  vanity,  but  in  solemn,  thankful  pride — have 
been  read  half  over  the  world,  and  translated  into  most  Eu- 
ropean languages.  Yet  it  is  less  as  an  author  than  as  a  wom- 
an and  a  mother  that  I  rest  my  claim  to  edit  this  Series ;  to 
choose  the  sort  of  books  that  ought  to  be  written  for  girls, 
and  sometimes  to  write  them. 

I  leave  myself  the  widest  range  of  selection,  both  as  to  sub- 
jects and  authors  ;  merely  saying  that  the  books  will  set  forth 
the  opinions  of  no  clique — I  belong  to  none ;  nor  will  they 
advocate  any  special  theological  creed — I  believe  only  in 
Christianity.  Indeed,  there  will  be  as  little  "  preaching  "  in 
them  as  possible ;  for  the  wisest  sermon  is  usually  a  silent 
one — example.  But  they  will  be,  morally  and  artistically, 
the  best  books  I  can  find,  and  will  contain  the  experience  of 
the  best  women  of  all  countries,  used  for  the  benefit  of  the 
generation  to  come. 

As  for  me,  I  was  once  a  girl  myself,  and  I  have  a  little  girl 
of  my  own.  I  think  both  mothers  and  girls  may  trust  me 
that  I  will  do  my  best. 

THE  AUTHOR   OF  "JOHN  HALIFAX:' 


Books  for  Girls. 


i.  LITTLE    SUNSHINE'S    HOLLDAY.     A 

Picture  from  Life.  By  the  Author  of  "  John  Halifax, 
Gentleman."  With  Illustrations  by  Frolich.  i6mo, 
Cloth,  90  cents. 

"Little  Sunshine's  Holiday"  is  a  very  charming  picture  from  life, 
representing,  as  it  does,  the  experiences  and  observations  of  a  little  girl 
who  is  taken  out  to  enjoy  a  holiday  trip.  The  language  is  simple,  and 
the  style  such  as  the  young  will  delight  in. — N.  Y.  Times. 

This  is  the  first  volume  of  a  series  of  books  intended  for  girls.  Miss 
Mulock  has  been  appointed  editor,  and  a  better  selection  could  not  have 
been  made,  her  pure  taste,  hearty,  earnest,  sympathetic  nature,  and  large 
experience  especially  qualifying  her  for  the  work  of  addressing  the  rising 
female  generation.  Very  appropriately  she  leads  off  the  series  with  a 
story  of  her  own,  which  will  especially  interest  the  younger  portion  of 
the  clientele  in  whose  behalf  the  publishers  have  projected  their  enter- 
prise. "  Little  Sunshine  "  is  a  bright,  lovable,  and  quite  human  child  of 
some  three  years,  who  is  taken  by  her  parents  on  a  holiday  trip  of  a 
month.  What  she  saw  and  what  she  did,  the  pleasure  her  parents  pro- 
vided for  her,  how  she  enjoyed  them,  and  how  she  repaid  their  fond  care, 
Miss  Mulock  narrates  in  a  simple,  lively  fashion  that  can  not  but  prove 
irresistible  with  the  little  ones,  while  the  story,  whether  read  to  or  by 
them,  will  leave  a  good  impression.  The  book  is  issued  in  handsome 
style,  rendering  it  peculiarly  suitable  for  gift  purposes. — Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

Will  certainly  afford  delight  to  all  who  love  children,  and  many  a 
mother  will  find  in  the  sweet  little  heroine,  with  her  yellow  hair  and 
winning  ways,  a  portraiture  of  her  own  sunny  child. — N.  Y.  Evening 
Post. 

The  narrative  is  related  in  a  style  of  flowing  sweetness,  and  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  tiny  heroine  afford  a  perpetual  store  of  interest  and 
amusement. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

An  exquisite  little  story,  written  by  a  woman  who  has  studied  well  and 
carefully  that  wonderful  piece  of  God's  handiwork,  an  opening  human 
soul.  No  woman  now  living  is  perhaps  so  well  fitted  to  fulfill  the  plan 
and  supply  what  has  long  been  felt  to  be  a  real  want — a  good,  pure, 
sensible  library  for  girls  of  all  ages. — Christian  Union. 


2.  THE  COUSIN  EROM INDIA.    By  Geor^- 

iana  M.  Craik.     Illustrated.     i6mo,  Cloth,  90  cents. 

The  story  is  one  of  absorbing  interest,  and  the  lesson  it  teaches  is  one 
of  the  greatest  importance,  and  which  is  probably  better  taught  by  ex- 
ample— real,  or  in  lifelike  fiction — than  by  any  amount  and  degree  of 
direct  instruction.  —  Examiner  and  Chronicle. 


Books  for  Girls, 


Lively,  natural,  pure,  and  good  in  its  teachings,  and  to  be  commended 
to  the  little  readers  in  all  our  family  circles. — Swiday-School  Times. 

"The  Cousin  from  India"  by  turns  is  amusing  and  tender,  moving 
the  reader  to  laughter  and  to  tears.  The  neat  and  demure-looking  damsel 
who  has  come  to  live  with  her  cousins  soon  proves  herself  mischievous 
and  naughty,  wild  and  deceitful ;  but  the  influences  of  her  new  home, 
and  of  loving  Davie  in  particular,  make  their  impression  upon  a  heart 
which  is  not  altogether  hard,  and  before  the  story  has  ended  Effie  has 
begun  a  better  life.  The  book  will  be  a  favorite  with  girls  and  boys 
alike. — Congregationalist. 

Is  the  story  of  a  little  girl,  wild,  untaught,  and  lawless,  who  makes  an 
irruption  into  a  family  of  quiet,  well-bred  children  ;  and  the  consequent 
commotions  that  ensue  provoke  alternately  to  laughter  and  tears. 
Sweet,  suffering  little  Davie's  influence  over  the  half-savage  cousin  is 
delightfully  drawn,  and  in  all  the  range  of  children's  literature  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  any  thing  more  touchingly  beautiful  than  the  story  of  the 
long  weeks  of  illness  and  death.  Throughout  the  whole  volume  there  is 
a  comprehension  of  and  sympathy  with  child  thought  and  feeling  that 
are  almost  as  rare  out  of  books  as  they  are  in.  We  wish  that  every  little 
girl  of  nine  or  ten,  and  every  mother  of  such  little  girl,  might  have  the 
chance  of  reading  this  book. — A  dvance. 

"  The  Cousin  from  India  "  is  a  very  interesting  story  of  a  preternatu- 
rally  clever  and  wicked  little  minx,  who  made  her  appearance  in  the 
quiet  family  of  her  good  aunt  to  make  mischief  and  trouble,  and  in  the 
long  run  to  get  converted  from  her  wicked  ways  by  the  suffering  and 
death  of  one  of  her  little  play-fellows,  and  to  be  put  in  the  way  of  becom- 
ing a  good  and  thoughtful  as  well  as  brilliant  girl  after  all.  The  story 
is  exceedingly  well  contrived,  the  character  of  the  mischievous  Effie 
being  drawn  with  unusual  skill. — N.  Y.  Times. 

The  story  of  the  untaught,  neglected,  but  clever  little  Indian  child  who 
is  thrown  so  suddenly  into  a  well-regulated,  happy  Christian  home  is 
very  fascinatingly  told.  Indeed,  to  girls  of  ten  years  old  and  upward, 
we  should  think  it  irresistible.  Like  the  rest  of  this  series,  it  is  well 
worthy  of  a  place  beside  those  tender  and  true  stories  which  have  made 
this  author  a  household  benefactor.— Christian  Union. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO.  From  the  Journal 
of  a  Girl  in  her  Teens.  Edited  by  the  Author  of  "  John 
Halifax,  Gentleman."    Illustrated.    i6mo,  Cloth,  90  cts. 


>&£F*  Harper  &  Brothers  will  send  either  of  the  above  works  by 

mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 

States,  on  receipt  of  go  cents. 


'  VIVK   LA    REPUBLTQUK   DKMOCR.VTIQUE."  [See  p.  72. 


TWENTY  YEARS   AGO. 


FROM   THE 


Monxnai  of  a  fflnrl  in  Ijer  STenxs. 


EDITED   BY   THE 


AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN." 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN      SQUARE. 
187   2. 


EDUCATION  ■K, 


THE   PEEFACE 

— Which  will  be  only  a  few  words. 

This  book  is — as  it  purports  to  be — the  bond 
fide  Journal  of  a  girl  in  her  teens,  kept  by  her 
during  a  short  residence  in  Paris  twenty  years 
ago.  It  was  put  into  my  hands  "  just  to  amuse 
me,"  and  I  found  it  so  interesting  that  I  suggest- 
ed its  being  recopied,  with  any  alteration  of 
names  or  disguise  of  incidents  that  was  thought 
advisable,  and  sent  back  to  me,  subject  to  what- 
ever editorial  excisions  I  might  deem  necessary. 

This  was  done ;  but  my  task  has  been  light, 
for  little  was  required.  A  few  sentences  con- 
densed or  transposed,  an  explanatory  line  added 
here  and  there,  and  the  general  supervision  of 
a  practiced  author  over  a  work  originally  "  not 
meant  for  publication" — this  was  all.  I  have 
let  the  girl  speak  for  herself.  I  have  not  even 
modified  her  passionate  political  opinions ;  the}' 
are  true  to  girl-nature  and  a  part  of  herself. 

Neither  have  I  omitted  those  portions  of  her 
Journal  which  describe  the  gay  Paris  life  in 
which  she  mingled,  the  people  she  met  therein, 
their  sentiments  and  her  own,  on  love,  mar- 
riage, and  other   subjects   usually  tabooed  in 


10  THE  PREFACE. 

girls'  books.  Why  ?  Girls  will  think  of 
these  things — ay,  and  talk  of  them  too.  Is  it 
not  better  that  both  their  thoughts  and  their 
conversation  should  be  guided  so  as  to  regard 
these  mysteries,  which  each  must  soon  find 
out  for  herself,  earnestly,  purely,  sacredly?  I 
believe  so ;  and  therefore  I  have  left  the  book 
just  as  I  found  it.  It  tells  no  story — it  points 
no  moral :  it  is  simply  a  picture  of  a  young 
girl's  life,  painted  by  herself,  in  what  most  girls 
will  recognize  as  natural  colors — as  fresh  now 
as  then.  If  a  little  too  vivid,  too  brilliant,  they 
are  still  natural.  Do  not  all  thing  looks  bright- 
er and  larger  than  reality,  in  our  teens  ? 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  French  introduced, 
for  which  I  make  no  apology.  Any  young 
reader  who  finds  this  a  difficulty — why,  the 
sooner  she  takes  her  grammar  and  dictionary 
in  hand  and  conquers  it,  the  better. 

And  so  I  give  this  girl's  Journal  to  other 
girls,  believing  that  it  will  do  them  no  harm, 
but  good,  and  only  wishing  that  one  day  they 
may  all  be  able  to  look  back  twenty  years 
with  as  little  need  to  be  ashamed  of  their  old 
selves  as  she  who  calls  herself  Beatrice  Watford, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

A  Parisian  Soiree 13 


CHAPTER  IT. 
The  Coup  d'etat 50 

CHAPTER  III. 
M.  le  Professeur 87 

CHAPTER  IV. 
M.  £mile 104 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Jour  de  l'An 122 

CHAPTER  VI. 
In  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain 133 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Balls 164 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Paris  in  April .....  186 


12  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PAGE 

The  Luxembourg  and  the  Conciergerie 201 

CHAPTER  X. 
Paris  in  May 211 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A  French  Country  .House 229 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  French  Village 258 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Friends  and  Fetes 283 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Autumn  Days 314 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Sibyl's  LpT — and  Mine 345 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A   PARISIAN  SOIREE. 


MORE  than  twenty  years  ago  I,  Beatrice 
Walford,  paid  my  first  visit  to  Paris.  I 
was  very  young,  fresh,  and  ardent;  open-eyed, 
open-eared,  eager  to  enjoy;  prone  to  admire, 
and  not  unwilling  to  criticise.  I  started,  to  be 
sure,  with  a  great  contempt  for  the  French 
character,  believing  that  the  men  were,  mon- 
keys, and  not  to  be  trusted;  the  women  vix- 
ens, and  given  up  to  dress.  This  was  all  the 
mental  provision  I  had  made  for  my  two  years' 
residence  among  them.  I  came  to  the  coun- 
try almost  in  that  state  of  innocence  which 
finds  it  astonishing  that  the  natives  of  France 
should  speak  French  :  I  left  it  as  little  of  a- 
Frenchwoman  as  could  be  expected  from  the 
stubborn  British  individuality ;  but  I  lived 
there  after  the  great  law  of  French  existence 
— I  amused  myself  as  much  as  I  could.     It 


11  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

seemed  an  idle  life,  but  Fate  will  let  no  life  be 
idle.  I  walked  carelessly  among  scenes  and 
characters  as  though  they  had  been  but  pic- 
ture-galleries, and  they  turned  into  earnest  stud- 
ies. And  now,  looking  back,  as  across  a  gulf  of 
endless  separation,  my  present  existence  —  on 
which  they  have  not  left  the  smallest  outward 
trace — seems  yet  filled  with  the  foreign,  famil- 
iar faces;  the  strange,  soon  beloved  tongues; 
with  the  curious  histories  learned,  the  romances 
watched  to  their  sweet  or  sad  conclusion ! 

My  first  single  emotion  was  one  of  delight 
it  the  radiant  world  in  which  I  found  myself. 
I  was  on  a  visit  to  a  sister  who,  some  six  years 
before,  had  married  a  French  gentleman  of  the 
petite  noblesse,  had  become  a  widow,  and,  hav- 
ing lived  a  good  deal  in  Paris,  preferred  still 
to  reside  there,  but  was  very  glad  to  have  me, 
as  she  said,  to  give  a  little  liveliness  to  her 
"  triste  home."  I  did  not  myself  think  it  at  all 
triste  when  I  arrived.  It  was  in  that  bright 
bit  of  Paris,  the  Avenue  des  Champs  iDlysees, 
making  one 'of  a  line  of  elegant  houses,  all  glit- 
tering in  their  bright  white  stone,  with  their 
moulded  and  gilded  facades  on  each  side  of 
those  broad,  sunny  walks,  and  their  double  av- 
enue of  trees.  And  then  my  sister's  small, 
pretty  apartment  opened  on  me  like  a  tiny 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  15 

fairy  palace,  as,  entering  the  antechamber,  I 
heard  the  gay  piano  sounding,  and  peeped  into 
the  bright  drawing-room  within,  a  little  shrine 
played  on  by  the  sunshine,  gay  and  fragrant 
with  flowers.  And,  like  the  nymph  of  flowers 
and  fragrance  herself,  came  forth  my  graceful 
sister  to  kiss  and  smile  on  me.  Then,  when 
the  first  vague  happy  greetings  were  over,  she 
made  me  sit  by  the  fire,  and,  throwing  herself 
back  in  a  low  chair  by  my  side  (her  favorite 
pretty  attitude),  played  with  her  little  baby,  a 
red-and-white  darling  with  two  dancing  sap- 
phires of  eyes.  We  were  soon  laughing  to- 
gether, for  she  was  excitable  and  easily  amused, 
and,  though  older  by  some  years,  more  of  a 
child  than  I. 

The  dear  Sibyl !  I  never  could  describe  her, 
she  was  such  a  delicate  blending  of  counter- 
elements.  The  admiring  Frenchman,  monsieur 
or  ouvrier,  would  pronounce  her  in  the  streets 
a  blonde  angelique,  and  I  have  known  a  lecture 
or  concert  room  fill,  as  she  entered,  with  a  gen- 
eral murmur  of  pleasure,  followed  by  the  loud- 
ly whispered  word  Anglaise.  And  English 
certainly,  refined  and  idealized  to  almost  an 
exceptional  creation,  was  that  white  nymph-like 
figure,  with  transparent  complexion  and  gold- 
en-brown hair,  and  a  kind  of  celestial  sweet- 


16  TWENTY  YEAES  AGO. 

ness  in  her  eyes  and  still  smile.  But  beyond 
that  charm  I  do  not  know  that  Sibyl  was  par- 
ticularly British ;  perhaps,  indeed,  she  seemed 
most  so  to  a  foreigner,  as  she  seemed  most 
French  to  a  compatriot.  But  to  me  there  was 
in  her  a  life  and  play,  a  subtle  archness,  a  for- 
eign grace  in  dress,  manner,  and  speech,  that 
seemed  to  have  been  kindled  in  a  warmer, 
more  exciting  atmosphere  than  ours.  Perhaps 
she  was  something  of  a  coquette,  but  I  did  not 
mind  that 

"Why,  Sibyl,"  I  said,  as  I  leaned  out  on  the 
light  iron  grillage  of  the  balcony,  "it  seems  to 
me  that  one  can  see  all  Paris  without  stirring 
from  one's  place.  All  the  world  appears  gath- 
ered into  a  picture  before  these  windows  for 
our  amusement.  From  that  bronze  fountain, 
.with  its  silvery  jet  and  foam-halo,  in  the  Place 
down  there,  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  cut  out 
in  the  blue  air,  it  is  a  picture  in  a  dream." 

"  There  goes  the  president,"  said  Sibyl ;  and 
I  looked,  though  the  name  was  not  then  much 
of  a  spell  (for  this  was  just  before  December 
2,  1851).  I  saw  a  low-hung  caleche  with  four 
horses,  valets  and  postilions  in  livery  of  green 
and  gold,  and  leaning  back  in  it,  with  folded 
arms,  a  slight,  inanimate-looking  man,  of  clayey 
or  rather  leathery  complexion,  who,  with  wood- 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  1? 

en,  immovable  face,  touched  his  hat  now  and 
then  to  the  scant  greetings  of  the  passers-by. 

This  was  twenty  years  ago.  Then  to  me, 
as  to  the  rest  of  that  unforeseeing  world,  all 
was  enjoyment — the  enj'03'ment  of  eyes  always 
pleased  and  never  satiated.  Our  day  was 
given,  as  were  many  after-days,  to  walking 
through  this  brilliant  modern  Paris,  admiring 
her  in  her  ordered  and  stately  grace ;  then 
plunging  into  the  ancient  gloom  and  squalor 
of  the  older  city,  entering  grand  buildings,  the 
shrines  of  past  ages,  hearing  divine  thunders 
and  angelic  voices  in  churches;  then,  at  one 
step,  plunging  again  into  a  torrent  of  human 
life,  where  the  quick  French  nature  seems  to 
run  like  a  light  sound  of  laughter  or  music  by 
our  side.  Sometimes  we  formed  a  party  to 
dejeuner  or  dine  in  some  shining,  sumptuous 
cafe ;  and  then  it  was  time  to  return.  Our 
first  walk  home,  in  a  frosty  brilliant  afternoon, 
was  by  the  south  terrace  of  the  Tuileries,  end- 
ing in  a  broad  esplanade,  below  which  lay 
spread  out  at  our  feet  the  whole  fair  Place 
de  la  Concorde.  There  on  one  side  stood  the 
Madeleine,  with  its  beautiful  encircling  colon- 
nade, seeming  to  look  across  the  granite  obelisk 
and  sparkling  fountains  of  the  Place  to  salute 
the  pillared  front  of  the  Chamber  of  Depu- 
B 


18  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ties,  on  the  other  side  the  river.  The  last  sun- 
shine rested  on  the  upper  part,  and  turned  the 
wreathing  frieze  and  cornice  to  gold.  In  a 
side-view  we  caught  a  lovely  bit  of  the  Seine 
— a  glimpse  of  rosy  water,  with  a  suspension 
bridge's  aerial  arch  flying  lightly  across  it.  It 
was  as  if  a  majestic  city  square,  with  all  its 
marble  architecture  and  sculpture,  should  sud- 
denly open  upon  us  from  amidst  stately  woods 
— all  clear  and  brightly  calm  in  its  framing  of 
a  wintry  crystal  atmosphere  and  a  burning 
sunset. 

It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  come  back  to 
our  own  street,  with  its  regular  clean  white 
houses,  its  row  of  windows  a  deux  battants  on 
the  upper  stories,  all  opening  down  to  the 
floor  upon  light  balconies  of  prettily  carved 
and  gilt  iron- work,  the  white  and  green  per- 
siennes thrown  back  against  the  walls,  showing 
the  muslin  curtains  within,  and  all  shining  as 
nothing  in  London  ever  shines.  We  approach 
our  own  house ;  the  great  double  doors  fly 
open  at  a  touch  of  the  bell  and  by  the  pull  of 
a  string,  and  before  us  appears  a  large,  hand- 
some court,  with  two  or  three  glass  doors  at 
'  the  end — one  into  the  concierge's  lodge,  the 
others  opening  on  the  great  common  staircase. 
Within  is  another  large  court,  built  round  by 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  19 

the  four  sides  of  the  house.  The  outer  court  - 
is  adorned  with  flowers  in  boxes,  dahlias,  ole- 
anders, and  orange  -  trees  ;  a  marble  Venus 
stands  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  As  we  pass 
the  concierges  lodge  I  see  through  the  glass 
door  the  comfortable-looking  room,  lighted 
with  fire  and  candle,  and  that  grim,  respectable 
old  dragon  and  his  wife  reclining  at  their  ease 
mfauteuils  placed  opposite  each  other.  In  the 
lodge  or  the  court  is  sometimes  to  be  seen  that 
prime  French  favorite,  a  superb  Cyprus  cat, 
with  waving,  plumy  exuberance  of  fur.  But 
when  I  inquire  after  him  I  am  so  often  stern- 
ly told  "Monsieur  se  promene,"  that  I  have 
given  up  this  dissipated  gentleman  as  scarcely 
a  respectable  acquaintance. 

Then  comes  the  wide  staircase,  up  whose 
smooth,  well-waxed  parqueted  steps  we  trip  so 
easily.  But  stop,  I  must  learn  to  walk  de- 
murely, at  least  when  I  am  alone ;  for  I  am 
told  by  Sibyl's  careful  bonne,  who  watches 
over  my  morals,  that  on  such  occasions  "les 
demoiselles"  must  not  run  up  stairs;  they 
must  go  "la  tete  elevee,"  and  leisurely,  to 
show  they  are  not  ashamed  to  be  seen.  I 
must  be  careful,  too,  short-sighted  as  I  am,  to 
see  the  concierge,  and  to  bow  to  him,  for  he  is  a 
man  of  lofty  politeness,  whose  good  manners  I 


20  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ought  at  least  to  try  to  imitate ;  and,  as  Ga- 
brielle  says,  nothing  is  so  necessary  to  "de- 
moiselles," nothing  so  carefully  taught  them 
in  France,  as  a  gracious  and  amiable  deport- 
ment. So  up  we  pass,  only  bowed  to  by  some 
stranger- locataire,  should  he  pass  at  the  same 
time,  each  landing-place  exhibiting  the  safely 
locked  door  of  some  elegant  asylum  in  which 
a  family  may  be  dwelling,  joyous  yet  quiet, 
as  much  "at  home  "  as  in  an  English  country 
cottage.  We  reach  our  own  :  Sibyl  and  I 
each  take  possession  of  a  deliciously  elastic 
causeuse,  all  soft  and  rich  with  crimson  velvet, 
see  our  own  pleased,  tired  faces  in  many  a 
gilded  mirror,  and  discuss  the  incidents  of  the 
day. 

"Now,  you  little  barbarian,"  said  Sibyl,  a 
few  days  after  my  arrival,  "I  must  take  you 
into  society  this  evening.  Very  often  I  have 
two  or  three  friends  who  drop  in,  in  a  quiet 
way ;  but  to-night  we  must  go  to  Madame 
Gibbs's." 

"Who  is  Madame  Gibbs?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  queer  little  body — a  French- 
woman married  to  an  Englishman,  who  piques 
herself  on  being  quite  English,  though  you 
won't  think  so.  Her  society  is  very  mixed, 
but  the  party  will  just  suit  you  as  a  beginning, 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  21 

being  quiet,  yet  very  amusing.  How  do  you 
think  you  shall  like  it,  -from  the  specimens 
you  have  seen  to-day  ?" 

"  I  must  confess,"  I  said,  "I  am  not  yet  rec- 
onciled to  black  beards  and  mustaches,  cigars, 
strange  dresses,  and  prolonged  stares.  In  fact, 
I  long  to  kill  every  man  I  meet.  But  this 
you  will  say  is  illiberal." 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,"  said  Sibyl,  candidly ; 
"but  then  I  have  been  some  years  learning 
toleration.  You  know  there  are  two  things  a 
Frenchman  can  never  help  using  —  his  eyes 
and  his  tongue.  As  that  dear  M.  Lamourette 
once  said  to  me  when,  being  younger,  I  ob- 
jected a  little  to  the  staring  process,  no  imper- 
tinence is  intended  ;  it  is  only  an  artless,  spon- 
taneous tribute  to  one's  charms.  lJ7n  Jiomme 
naif  el  ingenu  comme  moi]  as  he  was  pleased  to 
say,  '  can't  help  expressing  his  feelings.'  But 
I  have  since  grown  so  hardened  and  corrupted 
that  when  the  more  serious  Emile  asked  me 
how  I  ventured  to  walk  out  alone,  lest  I 
should  hear  disagreeable  things,  I  answered, 
with  the  innocence  of  fifteen,  that  what  I 
heard  was,  to  me,  not  disagreeable!  But  I 
don't  wonder  that  you,  Beatrice,  are  still  per- 
plexed by  hearing  various  conjectures  as  to 
your  nationality,  and  candid  information  about 


:32  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

your  i  type,'  your  hair,  and  your  complexion. 
Wait  for  this  evening's  experience.  "  French- 
men in  the  street  and  Frenchmen  in  the  salon 
are  very  different.  At  any  rate,  don't  utter 
these  opinions  of  yours  before  Hermine,  since, 
though  she  may  very  possibly  think  the  same 
herself,  she  may  also  betray  you  to  her  coun- 
trymen." 

Speak  of  the  sun  and  you  see  its  rays. 
Just  as  Sibyl  ceased  the  door  opened,  and  in 
came  two  ladies  —  an  elder  and  a  younger. 
The  latter  caught  at  once  my  beauty-loving 
eyes.  They  were  Madame  de  Fleury — Sibyl's 
stepmother-in-law,  who  lived  in  the  same  ho- 
tel on  a  lower  floor — and  her  young  daugh- 
ter Hermine,  with  whom  I  instantly  made  ac- 
quaintance. What  a  brilliant  little  French 
sylph  she  was,  as  she  half  tripped,  half  glided 
into  the  room,  moving  quickly  and  decidedly, 
her  small,  trim  figure  having  just  that  happy 
degree  of  compression  which  gives  slightness 
without  stiffness !  Her  face  I  thought  at  first 
•hard;  young  and  fresh  as  it  was,  it  had  a  me- 
tallic sharpness  and  clearness  the  very  reverse 
of  the  soft,  dreamy,  veiled  charm, of  youthful 
English  beauty.  She  wore  a  smile — wore,  I 
say  advisedly,  for  she  might  have  put  it  on 
with  her  dress  —  not  soft  or  timid,  but  full  of 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE,  23 

a  gay,  brilliant,  conquering  sweetness  all  its 
own. 

Hermine  was  very  gracious  to  me.  Had 
she  met  me  in  the  street  as  a  stranger,  she 
would  most  likely  have  measured  me  with  the 
eye  of  quick,  unsparing  criticism,  which  in  a 
moment  takes  in  the  whole  figure  and  dress  of 
a  person,  in  which  not  a  spot,  a  wrinkle,  or  a 
fold,  if  out  of  the  fashion,-  escapes  observation ; 
then  might  have  turned  away  with  that  slight 
derisive  smile  so  singularly  suited  to  discon- 
cert or  provoke  an  Englishwoman.  But  now 
perhaps  Hermine  satisfied  herself  in  that  glance 
that  my  pretensions  were  not  very  formidable, 
my  gown  and  bonnet  having  been  obviously 
not  made  in  Paris.  Graceful  and  self-pos- 
sessed, she  came  up  and  made  her  "felicita- 
tions" in  a  tone  of  affectionate  interest,  and 
with  her  light,  ringing,  singing  voice,  and  that 
air,  so  delicately  empress^  which  attracts,  flat- 
ters, and  caresses  to  the  highest  degree.  A 
pretty  Frenchwoman  who  means  to  please 
knows  how  to  manage  the  briefest  meeting,  the 
slightest  chance-intercourse,  especially  with  the 
other  sex,  be  it  only  a  handing  from  a  voiture, 
a  making  way  for  her  in  the  street,  acknowl- 
edged by  a  bow,  a  smile,  a  "  Merci,  monsieur." 
She  can  turn  it  all  into  a  little  sentimental  pas- 


:>A  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

sage,  by  means  of  that  charming  manner  they 
seem  all  to  have,  more  or  less,  from  the  high- 
bred young  countess  to  the  poor  fruit-woman 
at  her  stall.  Some  see  harm  in  this:  I,  Bea- 
trice Walford,  never  could.  Is  a  peach  less 
sweet  for  having  a  soft  velvety  cheek  outside  ? 
—that  is,  when  it  is  a  sound  peach,  as  peaches 
should  be. 

Hermine  and  I  exchanged  a  few  light  sen- 
tences, I  making  in  haste  crude  efforts  to  rival 
her  manners,  to  smooth  and  refine  my  phrases 
into  correct  works  of  art,  instead  of  trusting 
only  to  my  downright  sans/agon  English  good- 
will, which  felt  quite  put  to  shame  by  her  ex- 
quisitely-polished conventionalities.  But,  alas ! 
we  spoke  in  a  language  of  which  not  one  word 
would  come  straight  to  my  tongue  when  I 
wanted  it.  To  my  relief,  Sibyl  soon  inter- 
posed, saying  that  it  was  time  to  dress  for  Ma- 
dame Gibbs's.  We  withdrew  together,  leaving 
Hermine  and  her  mother,  who  were  already 
attired  and  prepared  to  accompany  us. 

"Just  tell  me  a  little  about  these  soirees"  I 
asked  of  my  sister.  "You  know  I  have  lived 
so  long  in  a  lonely  corner  of  Cumberland  that 
I  feel  giddy  at  this  sudden  plunge  into  Paris 
life,  and  may  disgrace  you  with  my  blunders." 

"Oh,  the    French    are    so    indulgent,"  said 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  25 

Sibyl ;  "  they  regard  a  foreigner's  first  crudities 
just  as  pretty, piquant  novelties;  to  the  new- 
ly-arrived all  things  are  forgiven.  True,  it 
will  not  do  to  depend  too  long  on  this  claim  to 
indulgence  ;  want  of  tact  is  regarded  as  a  mor- 
tal sin,  and  we  can  be  mediant  enough  when 
the  first  charm  of  novelty  has  worn  off.  But 
I  will  tell  you  the  sort  of  thing  it  will  be.  One 
evening  in  every  week  a  lady  receives  com- 
pany, and  her  acquaintance,  if  once  they  have 
had  an  invitation,  are  expected  always  to  come 
on  that  particular  evening.  However,  they 
come  or  not  as  they  like;  the  party  is  large 
or  small  as  may  happen  ;  they  dress  as  they 
please ;  they  enter  and  depart  with  no  cere- 
mony beyond  that  of  greeting  their  hostess ; 
they  stay  long  if  they  find  it  amusing,  or  only 
a  few  minutes  if  it  is  not  so,  or  if  they  want  to 
go  elsewhere.  The  same  people  get  a  habit 
of  frequenting  the  same  places ;  mutual  ac- 
quaintances have  also  their  evenings ;  so  that 
one  often  becomes  intimate  with  a  person  whose 
family  or  even  name  one  scarcely  knows,  and 
perhaps  scarcely  sees  by  daylight.  There  is 
no  effort,  no  gene.  People  here  meet  to  talk, 
and  do  it  with  all  their  hearts.  There  is  al- 
ways the  pleasant  expectation  of  seeing  again 
any  body  who  has  begun  to  interest  one,  and 


26  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

the  certainty  of  finding  new  faces  and  of 
watching  foreign  and  amusing  ways." 

"  Well,  I  shall  like  that,  if  only  I  need  not 
talk  a  word  for  at  least  the  first  three  even- 
ings." 

So  said  I,  not  knowing  my  fate,  or  rather 
not  knowing  myself. 

Sibyl  told  me  she  should  name  no  one  be- 
forehand— it  was  much  more  amusing  to  find 
people  out  for  one's  self — "  Except  Smile  de 
Fleury,  who  is  a  sort  of  relation ;  he  is  Her- 
mine's  cousin,  has  lately  left  the  Ecole  Poly- 
technique,  and  is  in  the  army.     That  is  all." 

Our  carriage  rumbles  and  jumbles  along  the 
execrable  pavements  of  the  aristocratic  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain,  which  is  also  the  literary 
quarter,  the  colleges  being  chiefly  there  ;  and 
in  this  class  of  society  lay  our  present  ac- 
quaintance. 

We  stop  at  a  large,  old,  dingy -looking  house 
in  the  Eue  de  1' University,  once  the  handsome 
hotel  of  some  "  grand  seigneur."  Its  various 
full-grown  etages  are  now  filled  with  artists, 
students,  litterateurs.  The  porte-cochere  is  open ; 
we  drive  into  the  open  paved  court,  where 
carriages  are  already  standing.  Three  flights 
of  stairs  lead  to  the  appartemexit  of  Madame 
Gibbs ;  we  are  ushered  into  a  nice  little  ante- 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREK  27 

room,  where  an  open  stove  or  brazier,  with  its 
white  marble  top,  diffuses  a  delicious  warmth, 
in  compensation  for  the  starry,  frozen  bitterness 
without.  Two  smiling  maidens  take  charge 
of  the  ladies'  mantles,  cachemireSj  capotes,  and 
all  the  rich  winter  wrappings  that  hide  till  then 
the  still  prettier  winter  dress  below.  The  light 
chorus  of  voices  from  inside  reaches  the  an- 
techamber where  we  stand,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments we  are  among  them. 

Madame  Gibbs  had  just  recommenced  her 
weekly  soirees.  These  were  of  a  kind  very  fre- 
quent among  the  lettered,  artistic,  professional, 
and  generally  not  too  rich  nor  exclusively 
fashionable  circles  in  Paris ;  consequently  very- 
mixed,  easy,  and  agreeable.  There  was  no 
show,  expense,  or  elaborate  hospitality  of  any 
kind;  the  majority  of  the  guests,- having  long 
been  in  the  habit  of  attending,  were  as  much 
at  home  there  as  by  their  own  firesides.  Be- 
sides this  regular  and  natural  reunion  of  inti- 
mates, Madame  Gibbs,  being  a  brisk  and  vigor- 
ous society-lover,  was  at  some  pains  to  flavor 
it  with  a  spicy  ingredient  or  two — a  new  ar- 
rival, a  foreign  celebrity,  a  queer  character,  a 
known  talker,  who  either  became  permanently 
added  to  her  set,  or  just  lighted  it  up  for  the 
winter,  or   perhaps   only   the   evening,  like  a 


38  TWENTY  YEAliS  AGO. 

passing  meteor.  As  yet  the  season  for  gaye- 
ties,  for  balls  and  fetes,  had  not  begun,  the  full 
flood  of  strangers  had  not  poured  in  ;  there- 
fore these  soirees  had  more  of  a  quiet,  do- 
mestic character  ;  the  parqueted  dancing-room 
was  not  yet  used,  except  perhaps  impromptu. 
The  ladies'  dresses  were  only  demi-toilets  ;  the 
young  ones  rejoiced  still  in  their  fresh,  clear 
colors — pink,  and  white,  and  blue — unfaded  by 
a  long  Paris  campaign  ;  there  were  plenty  of 
happy,  idle  men,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  not 
having  yet  opened,  nor  the  college  lectures 
begun. 

The  rooms,  though  not  large,  were  pretty 
well  arranged  for  reception,  well  furnished, 
and  well  lighted.  They  consisted  of  two  sa- 
lons, just  of  the  right  sociable  size  and  shape, 
each  warm  and  cheerful,  with  a  sparkling 
wood  fire  in  each,  and  couches  and  fauteuils 
scattered  around  in  most  inviting  groups. 

The  rooms  are  gradually  filling,  but  the  full 
choir  of  conversation  is  not  begun.  People 
stand,  flit  about  unfixedly,  exchange  a  word 
here  and  there;  presently  those  who  wish  to 
meet  find  each  other  out,  choose  their  places, 
and  slip  into  a  happy  groove  of  talk,  either  in 
a  duet  or  a  group  of  three  or  four,  changing 
as  people  leave  or  join  it.     Ere  long  the  sa- 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  29 

Ion  seems  to  present  nothing  but  a  crowd  of 
black -bearded,  mustached  men,  and  of  white 
gloves  waving  eagerly  through  the  room,  with 
tongues  incessantly  going  between  talk  and 
laughter.  All  are  voluble,  easy,  self-possess- 
ed, and  seem  in  high  enjoyment,  except  here 
and  there  arises  an  insular  form,  like  a  column 
above  the  rest,  blonde-headed,  reddish-whis- 
kered, good-looking,  heavy  —  either  silent  or 
speaking  quietly,  perhaps  with  an  air  of  gene, 
and  with  looks  and  attitudes  any  thing  but 
at  ease.  "English!"  say  I  to  myself  at  once. 
Besides  these,  there  are  bearded  artists,  pro- 
fessors with  lorgnons,  a,  few  militaires,  some  se- 
rious-looking Italian  exiles,  some  half-unna- 
tionalized  travellers,  citizens  of  all  wrorlds,  and 
many  of  them  queer  ones ;  some  suspected  Jes- 
uits, with  smooth  smiles,  softly  joining  every 
lively  group  of  talkers,  listening  and  seeming 
as  lively  as  any.  Here  and  there  is  a  stray 
grand  seigneur  of  the  old  school,  known  by  his 
more  quiet  and  polished  manners,  generally  a 
zealous  Catholic,  devot  perhaps  without  moral- 
ity, and  a  chivalrous  Legitimist,  doomed  thus 
to  elbow  Eed  Eepublicans  of  the  most  emanci- 
pated type.  Finally,  as  large  an  element  as 
any  are  English  girls ;  often  habiiuees  of  Paris, 
but  English  all  over  in  look,  speech,  and  dress ; 


30  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and,  in  their  fresh  beauty  and  joyous  simplici- 
ty, great  favorites  with  these  causerie- loving 
gentlemen.  French  demoiselles  make  a  very 
thin  sprinkling,  and,  when  they  do  appear,  it 
must  be  owned  their  countrymen  neglect  them 
a  little. 

There  sits  a  knot  of  downright  English 
maidens — a  bouquet  of  two  or  three  of  these 
Northern  lilies  or  island  roses — and  every  now 
and  then  a  sprightly-looking  Frenchman  slides 
up  to  them,  hat  in  hand,  and,  with  a  smile, 
makes  a  couple  of  bows  —  the  first  at  .a  dis- 
tance, reverential ;  the  second  nearer,  empresse 
(for,  however  intimate,  hands  are  seldom  shak- 
en) ;  and,  after  a  most  polite  inquiry  as  to  the 
health  of  the  young  lady  he  has  singled  out, 
which  must  be  answered,  as  he  will  repeat  it 
till  it  is,  he  opens  at  once  an  animated  flirta- 
tion. The  mixture  of  gay  raillery  with  com- 
pliment only  implied,  the  appearance  of  inter- 
est, the  pretty  turns  of  speech,  showing  just 
enough  consciousness  of  their  respective  sexes, 
and  not  too  much,  the  readiness  to  listen  as 
well  as  talk,  and  the  open-hearted,  confiding 
frankness  with  which  he  communicates  his 
feelings,  his  cares,  or  his  sorrows  —  all  this 
strikes  the  young  English  mind  as  very  un- 
English  indeed. 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  31 

The  favorite  first  topic  is  a  laughing  raillery 
of  mademoiselle  on  her  prejuges  atroces  against 
his  nation,  which  he  either  playfully  depre- 
cates or  exaggeratedly  confirms ;  and  mean- 
while the  English  girl,  if  she  be  new  and  in- 
experienced, looks  on  the  Frenchman  with  a 
mixture  of  doubt,  suspicion,  and  curiosity;  he 
is  a  mystery  of  which  she  finds  the  study  far 
from  disagreeable.  Theoretically  she  has  a 
horror  of  him  as  something  wicked,  worthless, 
dangerous ;  yet,  while  drawn  on  by  him  to  ex- 
press this,  she  finds  her  real,  actual  feelings  to 
be  surprise,  amusement,  and,  above  all,  that 
delicious  sense  of  gently  gratified  vanity.  For 
the  benefit  of  such-like  innocent  English  girls, 
I  may  observe  that  this  way  of  talking  and 
style  of  manners  is  with  a  Frenchman  a  mere 
matter  of  course,  and  means  very  little  in- 
deed. Of  course  my  initiation  into  French  so- 
ciety was  somewhat  on  this  wise ;  but  I  missed 
a  good  many  of  the  favorite  personalities,  from 
the  fact  of  my  not  being  precisely  the  blonde  et 
candide  Anglaise  which  is  stereotyped  in  their 
imagination.  Yet,  though  I  was  not  in  person 
of  the  peculiar  English  type  (to  use  their  pet 
phrase),  I  soon  discovered  that  I  was  to  them 
most  abundantly  britannique  in  character  and 
mamlre  d'etre.     I  could  after  a  while  perceive, 


32  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

not  indistinctly,  that  I  was  somewhat  of  a  fa- 
vorite; but  I  owed  this  chiefly  to  Sibyl's  ex- 
treme popularity.  There  would  come  up  to 
me  one  Frenchman  after  another,  either  led  by 
Madame  Gibbs  or  by  the  strong  spirit  within, 
to  inquire  in  tender  tones  if  I  was  not  la  soeur 
de  cette  charmante  Madame  de  Fleury  ;  and  very 
good  they  were  to  endure  all  my  sins  of  gram- 
mar and  absurdities  of  pronunciation  for  her 
sake. 

So  I  sat  and  watched,  when  I  could,  Sibyl's 
delicate  gayety  in  her  light  passages  of  talk 
with  divers  kinds  of  people,  her  pretty  caress- 
ing attentions  to  her  female  friends,  her  man- 
ners so  carelessly  serene  to  the  gentlemen, 
young  and  old,  who  hovered  round  her.  I  had; 
as  I  said,  my  share  of  introductions — for  some- 
times it  was  a  quick  desultory  succession  of 
indifferent  persons.  I  scarcely  caught  a  name ; 
I  hardly  knew  one  face  from  another ;  all  was 
equally  strange  —  an  Englishman  often  wild 
and  bearded  like  a  foreigner,,  a  foreigner  some- 
times speaking  excellent  English. 

Before  long  there  came  up  to  Sibyl  a  young 
man,  who  at  once  detached  himself,  to  my 
eyes,  from  that  crowd  of  men,  all  so  like  one 
another,  and  whom  she  named  as  M.  Emile. 
He  had  decidedly  a  military  air ;  but  the  first 


A  PABISIAN  SOIREE.  33 

thing  that  struck  me  was  his  superiority  in 
height,  figure,  carriage,  and  style  of  face  to  al- 
most all  the  other  young  men.  He  was  from 
the  north-east  of  France,  and  a  tinge  of  Frank- 
ish  blood  may  have  modified  his  Celtic  linea- 
ments. There  was  in  them  an  indefinable 
charm  far  beyond  handsomeness,  for  he  was 
not  handsome.  But  the  changing  play  of  his 
mobile  features,  his  fresh  coloring,  the  rich 
chestnut  of  his  hair  and  silky  mustache,  made 
him  certainly  not  ugly.  He  approached  Sibyl 
quietly,  with  an  air  of  homage  almost  timid,  yet 
very  sweet ;  then,  on  being  introduced,  bowed 
and  addressed  me  with  a  kind  of  gentle  for- 
mality ;  but  there  was  never  any  gaucherie.  A 
Frenchman  presents  himself  well,  and  stands 
or  sits  straight  and  at  rest— all  but  his  gesticu- 
lating hands;  his  bow  and  smile  bespeak  one 
who  knows  he  can  sustain  his  part.  In  the 
case  of  M.  Emile,  the  gentleness .  with  which 
he  entered  into  conversation  formed  a  kind  of 
shelter  from  the  exuberant  and  even  noisy  vi- 
vacity of  the  others ;  and  I  soon  found  myself 
pleasantly  floating  along  a  stream  of  meta- 
physical, critical,  sentimental,  and  other  dis- 
course with  the  young  soldier.  He  talked 
well,  like  most  other  Frenchmen ;  but,  though 
his  smile  was  ready  and  sweet,  and  his  re- 
C 


34  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

marks  often  playful,  he  yet  seemed  to  me  sub- 
dued in  comparison  with  the  others,  so  I  took 
occasion  of  a  break  in  our  conversation  to  ask 
my  sister  if  the  young  officer's  heart  had  been 
blighted. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  Sibyl.  "  The  state 
of  his  country  and  his  own  want  of  hope  of  ris- 
ing tend  to  depress  him ;  but  you  will  often 
find  him  lively  enough." 

This  was  sufficient,  when  M.  Simile,  with  his 
own  quiet  perseverance,  again  found  a  place  by 
Sibyl  and  me,  to  make  me  begin  to  talk  poli- 
tics. I  asked  him  how  he  liked  his  present 
ruler.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  d  la  Fran- 
gaise.  "  You  think  him  only  better  than  an- 
archy?" I  persisted,  with  English  directness. 

"I  am  in  his  service ;  I  must  not  speak  ill 
of  him." 

I  begged  pardon  for  my  indiscreet  question, 
and  was  politely  forgiven.  Indeed,  a  dogged 
reserve  was  not  in  M.  Emile's  character,  at  least 
towards  one  in  whom  he  began  to  place  a  friend- 
ly confidence ;  and  he  ere  long  betrayed  feel- 
ings which  made  me  say,  "I  am  charmed  to  find 
you  really  a  Eepublican." 

"  You  are  the  first  that  ever  doubted  it," 
replied  he,  in  a  gentle,  injured  tone. 

Still  farther  emboldened,  I  affirmed,  "  If  I 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  35 

were  in  your  place  I  should  throw  my  brevet  to 
the  four  winds." 

He  appreciated  the  sentiment,  but  pleaded 
the  necessity  of  a  profession,  the  chance  and 
hope  of  serving  his  country  in  some  way  or 
other,  which  a  present  surrender  of  his  position 
would  forever  destroy,  alleging  reasons  which 
I  felt  to  be  valid,  but  would  not  allow.  I  stood 
to  my  text,  affirmed  with  easy  heroism,  "II 
n'est  pas  necessaire  de  vivre,"  and  so  on,  till  he 
was  reduced  to  a  smiling  protesting,  "  Mais  vrai- 
ment,  mademoiselle ;"  then  broke  off,  wonder- 
ing at  such  "  enthousiasme  exalte;"  he  had  no 
idea  he  should  find  an  Anglaise  so  democratic, 
etc.  I  liked  to  see  him  as  he  stood  smiling 
down  from  his  tall  height,  under  his  dark  silk- 
en mustache — a  pleased,  amused,  half-embar- 
rassed smile — crossing  and  uncrossing  his  arms 
in  a  light  and  gentle  style  of  his  own,  as  he  en- 
tered his  protest  against  my  exaltation. 

Though  liking  him,  I  was  a  little  displeased 
with  M.  filmile  for  what  appeared  an  absence 
of  heroic  consistency,  a  temporizing  submission 
to  circumstances;  but  I  did  him  wrong. 

It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  our  nascent 
friendship  that  at  this  juncture  there  approach- 
ed a  gentleman  whom  I  did  not  know,  a  com- 
plete contrast   to   the   quiet,  thoughtful,  low- 


36  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

voiced  young  officer.  This  person  had  been 
fluttering  about,  or  rather  had  poised  in  his  er- 
ratic flight  a  moment  near  us,  and  then,  waiting 
for  no  introduction,  plunged  into  the  conversa- 
tion, which  from  that  moment  he  seized  up,  car- 
ried on,  and  almost  engrossed,  with  a  torrent 
of  esprit,  fun,  laughter,  and  animation  of  look, 
tone,  and  gesture  that  I  despair  of  describing. 
To  say  that  he  was  amusing  is  little ;  I  was 
never  in  my  life  so  amused  before.  To  say 
that  he  was  extremely  noisy  is  also  strict  jus- 
tice ;  and  when,  attracted  by  the  flood  of  talk 
and  outbreaks  of  laughter  from  our  group,  oth- 
er gentlemen  from  time  to  time  joined  in,  till  it 
consisted  of  five,  six,  or  even  seven  at  once,  con- 
tributing their  quota  to  the  excitement,  I  felt 
myself  at  last  in  a  bewildering  fever  of  amuse- 
ment, surprise,  and  exertion. 

Sibyl  at  first  gave  me  some  aid,  but  she  was 
called  away  by  Madame  Gibbs,  and,  left  to  my- 
self, I,  unfortunate  foreigner !  found  my  diffi- 
,  culty  in  speaking  become  ten  times  greater. 
But  this  mattered  nothing ;  the  flattering  po- 
liteness, the  inexhaustible  brjjliancy,  and  the 
electrical  good-humor  of  the  unknown,  covered 
and  overpowered  all  encircled  by  these  vehe- 
ment talkers.  I  could  not  and  did  not  think 
of  escaping,  and  nothing  but  my  own  final  de- 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  87 

parture  put  an  end  to  the  game,  which  seemed 
so  agreeable  to  these  gentlemen,  of  astonishing 
the  poor  Anglaise.  I  must  say  that  they  were 
extremely  well  bred,  and  the  quickness  and 
courtesy  with  which  the  brilliant  stranger  list- 
ened to,  understood,  helped  out,  and  replied  to 
my  very  English  French  were  perfectly  charm- 
ing. 

As  for  recording  one  tenth  of  what  he  said, 
it  would  be  impossible,  nor,  without  the  tone 
and  manner,  would  it  seem  much  worth  re- 
cording ;  I  can  only  collect  some  few  stray 
drops  from  this  Niagara  of  talk.  I  was  at  first 
(of  course)  rallied  on  my  supposed  prejudices 
against  the  French,  and  confirmed  in  them  by 
the  assurance  that  they  were  bavards,  frivolous, 
foolish,  and  unreflective.  Nothing  could  be 
more  amusing  than  the  way  they  ran  them- 
selves down,  appealing  constantly,  in  seductive 
tones,  to  "mademoiselle,"  for  whose  edification 
these  tirades  were  uttered.  They  talked  about 
national  cruelty  ;  their  ferocity,  especially  that 
of  the  military,  was  admitted  without  a  dissen- 
tient voice ;  but  some  one  pronounced  the  cru- 
elties of  the  English  worse,  because  they  were 
committed  in  cold  blood,  while  the  French 
were  hurried  away  by  passionate  excitement. 
•Finallv.  of  all  the  excesses  of  all  the  most  sav- 


38  TWENTY  YUAMS  AGO. 

age  soldiery,  those  committed  by  the  Austrians 
were  said  to  be  pre-eminent. 

Then  the  gentle  M.  Emile  was  rallied  on  the 
ferocity  he  had  brought  from  one  short  cam- 
paign in  Algdrie ;  but,  to  allay  the  horror  I 
might  be  entertaining  of  him,  I  was  assured 
that  he  was  the  most  humane  of  all,  and  that 
he  had  not  "egorgd  plus  d'une  douzaine  de 
femmes,  ni  mange  plus  de  quatre  enfants." 
M.  ]±]mile  then  told  composedly  some  stories 
of  murderous  adventure  and  horrible  massa- 
cre in  Algerie ;  but  when  he  tried  to  allay 
the  effect  by  some  touches  of  interesting  inci- 
dent or  picturesque  description,  he  was  un- 
mercifully laughed  at  by  his  friend,  who  bade 
me  believe  nothing  he  said,  for  that  "M.  l'offi- 
cier"  was  "romanesque,  un  peu  sentimental 
meme,"  "  A  defect  from  which  you  are  quite 
free,"  I  thought  to  myself.  It  was  great  fun 
to  see  this  lively  man  teasing  his  friend,  and 
then  consoling  him  with  a  patronizing,  caress- 
ing good-nature  which  the  tall  young  militaire 
took  with  his  usual  quiet  serenity.  From  for- 
eign, they  came  to  domestic  cruelties,  which 
they  told  apparently  with  great  gusto.  "Voi- 
la,  mademoiselle,  encore  le  tigre !"  was  the  de- 
lighted wind-up. 

Having  thus  lighted  on  politics,  we  pursued- 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  39 

the  theme  with  something  more  of  earnestness 
than  before  ;  and  then  my  new  friend,  by  cer- 
tain oratorical  poses,  betrayed  himself  as  one 
accustomed  to  the  tribune  and  to  public  speak- 
ing. All  Frenchmen,  I  observe,  who  are  in 
the  habit  of  this  make  a  point,  when  inter- 
rupted for  but  twp  minutes,  of  following 
Lamartine's  celebrated  example,  and  standing 
with  their  arms  folded  in  an  attitude  of  august 
calm.  My  friend's  natural  majesty  was  not 
much,  but  he  did  what  he  could.  A  pensive 
Italian  joined  the  group ;  the  sprightly  pro- 
fessor— for  so  far  I  had  made  out  what  he  was 
— instantly  turned  his  fire  of  raillery  on  him, 
said  something  with  much  emphasis  about  "  le 
roi  Bomba,"  and  then,  turning  again  to  me, 
observed,  "We  have  one  comfort  left;  as  long 
as  the  Neapolitans  exist  we  can  not  be  called 
the  last  of  nations"  —  which  hit  the  grave 
young  democratical  litterateur  took  very  well. 

Then  he  gayly  quoted  the  president's  late- 
reported  saying,  "  II  faut  supprimer  l'Angle- 
terre,"  and  asked  me  how  I  liked  it.  "Let 
him  try !"  I  answered,  scornfully,  adding  that 
it  was  very  ungrateful  of  Louis  Napoleon  to 
the  country  which  had  sheltered  him  so  long. 
This  remark  was  politely  approved  of,  and 
when  I  was  threatened  with  being  detained 


40  TWENTY  YEAKS  AGO. 

prisoner  at  Paris  in  case  of  an  English  war, 
and  answered  "  Je  resterai  volontiers,"  smiles 
and  bows  acknowledged  my  reciprocal  polite- 
ness. When,  on  being  asked  my  political 
opinions,  I  confessed  to  the  reddest  of  Eed 
Eepublicanism,  adding  "  that  I  was  ready  to 
mount  a  barricade, "  M.  le  Professeur,  with  an 
air  of  chivalrous  devotion,  declared  his  deter- 
mination to  mount  behind  me.  A  general 
shout  of  laughter  informed  him  of  his  mistake, 
and  it  was  in  vain  that  he  earnestly  strove  to 
improve  it ;  he  got  nothing  but  the  credit  of 
his  first  assertion. 

In  the  midst  of  the  discussion  my  sister 
came  to  call  me  away.  She  was  attended  by 
a  new  Frenchman,  whom  she  formally  pre- 
sented to  me,  naming  each  to  each  as  she  did 
so.  My  name  seemed  to  interest  the  audience, 
for  the  French  gentlemen  suspended  their 
storm  of  discourse  to  let  the  small  soft  Chris- 
tian name  in  Sibyl's  sweet  accents  slip  in,  and 
fill  up  the  tiny  interval.  I  bowed  and  van- 
ished, the  last-named  gentleman  accompany- 
ing Sibyl  and  me  to  our  carriage. 

And  who,  then,  was  this  clever,  impetuous 

talker,  who  had  given   me   my  first  idea  of 

French  esprit?     Why,  he  was  the  man  most 

■recherche  in  all  that  society;  still  young,  but 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  41 

known  as  a  charming  talker,  and  a  brilliant, 
rising  man  of  lettefls — the  pleasant  and  popu- 
lar Professor  Achille  Lamourette.  After-ac- 
quaintance presented  him  in  new  lights;  at 
present  I  rightly  held  him  intensely  agreeable. 
In  appearance  he  was  far  more  the  French- 
man of  one's  imagination  than  M.  Emile  or 
any  one  else  that  I  had  seen — a  lithe  figure, 
electric  movements,  a  whirlwind  of  gesticula- 
tion, an  eye  of  restless  light,  smooth  chin  and 
slight  mustache,  features  young  but  expression 
old,  a  face  of  lightning-like  play,  but  strongly 
marked  with  those  sensitive  lines  that  betray 
a  most  nervous  temperament,  and  speak  also 
of  days  of  sedentary,  studious  toil,  a  mercurial 
nature  bowed  down  to  drudgery,  but  always 
striving  to  escape,  and  compensating  itself  by 
brief,  eager  flashes  of  more  vivid  life. 

I  have  said  that  there  were  few  French  la- 
dies present ;  nevertheless,  I  did  make  ac- 
quaintance with  one  whom  I  think  I  shall  like 
better  than  Hermine.  In  the  first  place,  she 
had  expressed  a  great  desire  to  know  English 
young  ladies ;  in  the  next,  though  she  sat  by 
her  mothers  side,  she  was  not  totally  eclipsed 
in  the  maternal  shadow,  but  spoke  for  herself 
in  a  decided  manner,  as  one  accustomed  to 
some  independence.     It  is  true  she  was  about 


42  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

twenty-three.  At  first  I  thought  her  older, 
for  her  face  was  one  of  4hose  which  at  first 
sight  are  dingy  and  heavy,  but  wh$n  animated, 
lighted  up,  and  especially  in  full  dress  and  at 
happy  moments,  become  really  beautiful.  It 
was  a  grand,  melancholy  face,  with  severe  Ko- 
man  features,  ample  brow,  and  large  black 
eyes ;  there  were  in  it  traces  of  physical,  and 
I  thought  suppressed  mental,  suffering.  Her 
whole  manner  had  a  gracious  self-respect,  be- 
speaking her,  what  I  believe  she  was,  an  hon- 
est, high-principled  girl. 

She  was  Eulalie  Kenand,  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  Protestant  banker.  She  had  been 
carefully  brought  up,  was  well-informed,  and 
had  much  sense — of  the  dry,  positive  kind, 
perhaps,  and  attended  by  sufficient  confidence 
in  herself;  but  she  thought  clearly,  and  spoke 
readily  and  well.  She  paid  me  some  stately 
and  gracious  compliments  on  my  poor  French, 
expressed  a  desire  of  farther  acquaintance,  and 
a  willingness  to  give  me  any  information  I 
might  wish  for.  We  fejl  into  conversation, 
which  turned  by  chance  on  the  early  marriages 
of  French  girls,  about  which  I  asked  her  many 
questions.  She  confirmed  all  my  previous 
ideas,  but  added,  with  a  proud  calm,  "There 
are  exceptions  ;  I  am  one,  and  I  do  not  regret 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  43 

it.'7  I  afterwards  learned  that  she  had  formed 
and  kept  the  romantic  resolution  never  to 
marry  unless  she  could  do  it  d  VAnglaise — that 
is,  for  love. 

But  all  this  while  I  have  said  nothing  of 
Hermine.  Well,  there  was  nothing  to  say. 
She  sat  at  her  mother's  side,  demure,  like  a 
kitten  that  may  be  playing  madly  next  mo- 
ment. She  looked  quite  a  child,  and  a  very 
pretty  one,  though  dressed  in  a  quiet-colored 
silk  morning -dress.  Gentlemen  came  up  to 
her  mother,  but  addressed  not  a  word  to  her ; 
which  was  all  exquisitely  correct,  of  course. 
While  watching  her  I  saw  her  suddenly  be- 
come ten  times  demurer ;  the  only  reason  I 
could  assign  for  this  was  the  approach  of  an 
elderly  gentleman,  the  same  who  was  last  pre- 
sented to  me,  and  who  escorted  us  home,  Her- 
mine and  her  mother  accompanying  us.  He 
was  a  specimen  of  a  very  different  class  from 
most  of  those  around  us,  and  in  three  points 
he  certainly  had  the  advantage.  He  used  no 
furious  gesticulations ;  he  had  no  fierce,  disor- 
derly profusion  of  hair  over  lips  and  chin;  and 
he  did  not  breathe  garlic  and  tobacco.  He 
was,  in  fact,  a  rather  elderly  aristocrat,  and  of 
manners  as  aristocratically  perfect  as  any  I 
ever  saw  —  not  particularly  sincere,  nor  con- 


44  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

veying  any  idea  of  genuine  amiability,  but 
simple,  yet  finished,  easy,  and  agreeable.  I 
honored  what  I  saw  as  a  last  relic  of  what  I 
am  told  is  dying  out  in  Paris — the  manners  of 
the  ancien  regime.  A  tranquil  bow,  a  low  even 
tone,  and  an  immediate  but  very  quiet  flow  of 
conversation — conversation,  it  must  be  owned, 
much  in  the  same  style  as  his  younger  rivals 
— that  is,  seasoned  with  compliments,  raillery, 
and  all  the  implements  from  the  arsenals  of 
flirtation  which  he  may  have  used  with  suc- 
cess some  twenty  years  ago,  more,  as  I  thought, 
to  keep  up  still  a  character  for  galanterie  than 
from  any  other  feeling.  I  rather  wished  he 
had  not  that  twinkling  gray  eye,  nor  that 
somewhat  slippery  smile.  Still,  I  would  have 
attentively  studied  this  new  zoological  speci- 
men ;  but  I  was  so  very,  very — tired,  was  it  ? 
— and  I  was  greatly  relieved  when,  after  bow- 
ing to  me,  and  gracefully  kissing  Sibyl's  and 
Hermine's  hands,  Monsieur  le  Comte  took  his 
leave. 

"  Well,"  said  Sibyl,  laughing  at  my  exhaust- 
ed expression  of  countenance,  "  these  soirees 
present  a  new  tableau  every  time  ;  but  the  best 
of  all  was  to-night.  You,  the  shy,  rustic  En- 
glish girl,  who  can't  speak  a  word  of  French, 
chattering  away  the  whole  evening  with  half  a 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  45 

dozen  of  the  most  colloquial  Frenchmen,  and 
looking  the  most  desperately  amused  of  them 
all !  Tell  me,  now,  what  do  you  think  of 
them?" 

"  They  are  very  amusing,"  I  said,  succinctly. 

"  Yes,"  put  in  Hermine,  with  a  slight  laugh ; 
"  and  still  more  so,  I  should  think,  if  you  take 
for  granted  all  that  my  countrymen  say  to  you. 
They  take  a  little  advantage  of  you  as  a  for- 
eigner, just  pour  Jammer" 

"I  think  that  very  likely,"  I  replied,  though 
at  the  moment  I  was  at  loss  for  the  particular 
allusion  and  the  meaning  of  that  slight  tone 
of  pique.  I  presently  remembered  that  M.  le 
Comte  had,  in  a  paroxysm  of  politeness,  in- 
formed me  that  the  very  name  Anglaise  had  to 
a  Frenchman  a  mysterious  charm,  a  spell,  call- 
ing up  an  image  of  ideal  perfection.  This,  no 
doubt,  was  provoking  to  a  young  Franqaise 
quite  conscious  of  her  charms.  When  Sibyl 
soon  after  enlightened  me  still  farther  by  the 
private  information  that  an  alliance  was  on  the 
tapis  between  M.  le  Comte  and  Mdlle.  Her- 
mine,* and  that  in  a  short  time  they  would 
probably  be  declared  fiances,  I  comprehended 
better  still. 

Left  alone,  my  sister  and  I  fell  into  the  usu- 
al English  strain  of  comment  on  the  French 


46  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

marriage  system,  and  wondered  at,  deplored, 
and  abused  it  in  general,  while  I  grieved  over 
Hermine's  case  in  particular,  though  assured 
by  Sibyl  that  Her  mine  would  not  be  unhappy, 
as  she  had  never  expected  any  thing  better. 
It  was  strange  to  have  thus  early  before  my 
eyes  a  veritable,  living  instance  of  those  ma- 
nages de  convenance  which  I  had  always  heard 
of,  but  never  quite  realized.  Here  was  a  girl 
like  myself — with  a  heart,  I  supposed,  made 
by  nature  like  mine,  and,  I  was  sure,  charms 
enough  to  have  a  right  to  love  and  be  loved,  if 
any  of  us  had  —  affianced,  without  any  will  of 
her  own,  to  a  man  nearly  twice  her  age. 

I  looked  on  the  bright,  graceful  little  nymph 
with  a  new,  painful  interest,  unable  to  regard 
her  as  other  than  a  victim.  Seeing  my  com- 
passion still  troublesome,  Sibyl  was  at  pains  to 
say  all  she  could  for  the  system,  which,  as  she 
observed,  suits  French  people,  and  has  some 
pleasant  features  in  it.  The  romance  of  love- 
making,  which  with  us  ends,  with  them  often 
begins,  at  marriage.  The  husband  naturally 
conceives  a  great  interest  in  the  young,  timid, 
innocent  creature  thus  confided  to  him,  and 
takes  pains,  by  tender  attentions,  to  tame  the 
shy,  wild  bird,  conquer  her  fears,  and  win  her 
heart.     Often  he  succeeds ;   she  loves  for  the 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  47 

first  time  warmly,  and  then,  as  often,  Sibyl 
was  forced  to  confess,  the  love-making  ceases. 
But  the  wife  adapts  herself  by  degrees  to  the 
change. 

"I  think,"  said  Sibyl,  "Hermine  will  do  as 
well  as  most  under  the  circumstances.  She 
has  great  good  temper  and  good  sense,  and 
she  is  such  a  taking  little  creature  that  if  she 
chooses  she  may  hold  her  husband  captive  a 
long  time." 

I  was  silent,  but  my  heart  rebelled ;  I  was 
only  eighteen,  and  I,  an  honest-hearted  English 
girl,  believed  in  love. 

We  soon  returned  to  considering  the  char- 
acters and  incidents  of  the  evening  just  past: 
Sibyl  was  of"  great  use  in  helping  me  to  ar- 
range my  impressions,  in  making  annotations 
and  explanations. 

"  Compared  with  this,"  I  said,  a  what  a  com- 
monplace affair  is  an  English  evening  party ! 
How  little  of  manners,  still  less  of  character, 
one  would  observe  there !  What  salient  fea- 
tures, what  strongly-marked  individuality,  what 
dramatic  grouping  of  persons  and  situations! 
I  came  desiring  only  a  niche  whence  I  might 
see  and  hear  something  as  to  what  a  French- 
man and  his  talk  might  be  like,  and  I  find  my- 
self undergoing  a  full  initiation,  seasoned  by  a 


48  TWENTY  YEAliS  AGO. 

curious  contradictory  charm — the  piquancy  of 
utter  strangeness  and  the  ease  of  long  famil- 
iarity." 

I  expressed  also  my  surprise  at  their  social 
imprudence  and  unreserve,  the  freedom  of 
their  strictures  on  others,  their  openness  about 
themselves,  and  their  apparent  pleasure  in  an 
answering  sincerity. 

"My  dear,"  said  Sibyl,  "Hermine  is  partly 
right  in  saying  that  you  must  not  take  au  pied 
de  la  lettre  all  that  you  hear.  Frenchmen  are 
such  an  odd  compound — they  have  such  va- 
ried motives  for  what  they  say :  a  desire  to 
please  the  foreigner,  and  a  love  of  strong  emo- 
tions and  strong  language  makes  them  find 
fault  with  themselves,  while  their  amour-propre 
and  quick  sense  of  ridicule  causes  them  to 
be  severe  towards  others.  Having  discover- 
ed your  English  truthfulness,  they  are  much 
amused  at  it — in  an  imaginative  way ;  attract- 
ed too.  But  in  the  long  run,  ma  petite,  you 
will  find  yourself  beaten." 

"  Very  likely,"  I  said ;  "  I  feel  that  I  am  no 
match  for  them." 

But  in  my  heart  I  vowed  boldly  and  gayly 
that  I  would  be  a  match  for  them ;  that  I  too 
would  be  only  observant  and  amused ;  that  I 
would  be  charmed  but  for  the  moment,  and  no 


A  PARISIAN  SOIREE.  49 

more ;  that  I  would  fight  the  charming  French- 
men cheerfully  with  their  own  weapons,  and 
return  with  vivid  content  to  my  own  honest 
English  home  and  English  brothers — lovers  I 
had  none. 

"  Even  I,"  continued  Sibyl,  "  who  have 
known  France  so  much  longer,  and  whom  you 
think  so  French,  even  I  think  sometimes  what 
chance  have  I,  or  the  simple  downright  En- 
glish nature,  against  this  delicate  subtlety,  this 
persiflant  criticism  and  deep  arriere  - peyisee. 
They  see  through  us,  flatter  us,  charm  us,  and 
then  laugh  at  and  forget  us — looking  so  open 
and  innocent  through  it  all  !" 

"  Do  you  include  M.  Emile  among  them  ?" 
I  asked. 

"No,"  Sibyl  answered,  rather  hurriedly. 
"  Emile's  nature  is  so  golden,  I  think  he  may 
be  relied  on.     Good-night,  my  child." 

And  so  we  went  to  bed. 
D 


50  TWENTY  YEAES  AGO. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE   COUP   D'ETAT. 

THE  week  that  elapsed  between  my  first 
and  second  soirees  at  Madame  Gibbs's  had 
some  significance  for  France,  if  not  for  myself. 
It  was  marked,  in  fact,  by  a  revolution. 

One  night  Paris  went  to  sleep  a  free  and 
tranquil  city,  with  all  her  plans  and  purposes, 
whether  of  pleasure  or  politics,  in  full  flow, 
and  waked  to  find  herself  gagged,  invested, 
breathless,  and  motionless.  An  armed  force, 
conjured  up,  as  it  seemed,  like  a  night  enchant- 
ment, beautiful-seeming,  still  and  strong,  filled 
up  the  city  from  end  to  end,  girdled  every 
square,  closed  up  every  street  —  all  Paris  at 
once  compressed  in  one  gigantic  hand,  that 
kept  down  every  breast,  restrained  every  move- 
ment ;  and  behind  that  glittering  fence  of  bay- 
onets one  man  doing  what  he  pleased  with  a 
dumb,  prostrate  population!  Between  night 
and  morning  a  constitution  had  been  stabbed 
dead — a  nation's  liberties  strangled. 

But  I  must  tell  the  story  as  we  learned  it, 
beginning  with  a  piece  of  our  own  domestic 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  51 

history.  Just  before  this  our  circle  had  been 
enlarged  by  the  advent  of  our  cousin  Horace, 
a  very  grave,  good,  middle-aged  man.  He 
took  a  room  in  the  same  house  with  as,  and 
proved  a  most  useful  protector  and  chaperon 
in  the  following  days  of  excitement. 

On  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  December  2, 
Horace  came  in  from  his  early  morning  walk 
with  the  news  that  the  Champs  Elysees  up  to 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  was  full  of  soldiers 
— five  hundred  lancers  coming  in  in  full  trot 
— and  that  it  was  reported  that  Changarnier 
was  that  morning  arrested.  Between  nine  and 
ten  we  went  out  and  learned  something  more 
definite.  We  passed  through  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees,  and  saw  Place,  quays,  avenues  crammed 
with  dragoons,  leading  their  horses  about  among 
the  trees,  and  evidently  preparing  for  a  perma- 
nent station  there.  In  the  Faubourg  St.  Ho- 
nore  we  found  people  busy  pasting  up  three 
proclamations — one  from  the  prefet  de  police, 
two  from  the  president  himself — of  which  the 
first  was  short,  giving  in  a  few  brief  decisive 
sentences  the  facts  of  the  case — that  the  Na- 
tional Assembly  was  dissolved,  universal  suf- 
frage established,  the  French  people  convoked 
to  vote  from  the  14th  to  the  21st  following, 
the  Council  of  State  dissolved,  and  all  Paris 


53  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  the  environs  in  a  state  of  siege.  The  sec- 
ond appel  au  peuple  was  couched  in  that  pecul- 
iar style  of  eloquence  that  seems  so  pleasing  to 
Frendh  minds,  denouncing  the  Assembly  just 
dismissed  as  &  foyer  de  complols,  and  calling  on 
the  people  to  assist  him — the  prince-president 
— in  forming  a  new  government,  of  which  the 
chief  points  are  a  chef  responsable  named  for 
ten  years  (who,  he  not  obscurely  hints,  is  to  be 
himself),  and  two  assemblies,  the  one  delibera- 
tive, the. other  legislative,  and  both  elected  by 
universal  suffrage.  This  he  says  was  the  First 
Consul's  system — this  only  can  save  France. 

The  prefet's  proclamation  conjured  the  "  ha- 
bitants de  Paris  "  to  confide  in  the  man  whom 
six  millions  of  votes  had  made  their  head, 
glorified  the  "grandeur  de  l'acte"  he  had  just 
performed,  and  the  "calme  imposant  et  solen- 
nel"  of  which  he  set  them  an  example,  iden- 
tified him  with  the  people,  and  submitted  his 
conduct  to  their  judgment. 

At  intervals  along  the  street  were  posted 
triple  rows  of  soldiers  of  the  line ;  the  porte- 
cochere  of  the  Elysee  was  open,  and  we  saw  in 
the  court  staff- officers  mounted  and  a  great 
deal  of  movement  to  and  fro.  As  we  approach- 
ed the  Place  de  la  Madeleine  more  and  more 
signs  of  military  occupation  appeared,  soldiers 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  .        53 

in  deeper  masses,  with  bayonets  fixed,  and  the 
Place  all  round  the  well-known  church  filled 
with  lancers,  with  their  lances  and  waving 
pennons  displayed,  immovable  on  their  horses. 
Presently  cries  of  "Vive  le  general !"  arose,  and 
we  saw  a  man  in  general's  uniform,  on  a  beau- 
tiful white  horse,  followed  by  officers,  ride  by 
and  take  off  his  cocked  hat  to  the  salute  of 
the  troops.  He  was  a  stout,  square  man,  with 
white  mustaches,  and  a  face  of  rather  fierce 
energy  and  resolution.  It  was  General  Saint- 
Arnaud,  the  minister  of  war. 

The  crowd  increased,  but  there  was  no  agi- 
tation anywhere.  Paris  seemed  to  take  cool- 
ly enough  the  midnight  trick  that  had  been 
played  upon  her,  and  stood  reading  with  faint 
amusement  the  placards  on  the  walls  that  told 
her  her  freedom  had  been  destroyed.  While 
we  were  thus  engaged,  a  young  mustached 
French  gentleman  (a  stranger)  addressed  us 
with  great  politeness,  to  assure  us  that  "tout 
etait  fini,"  that  there  was  no  danger;  and,  on 
our  making  some  inquiry  about  the  expected 
review  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  added,  "Allez 
voir,  allez  voir ;  les  dames  anglaises  aiment  a 
tout  voir  " — and  laughing,  with  a  low  bow,  he 
left  us.  By  his  cheerfulness  we  concluded 
that  he*  was  a  "  Napoleoniste."     Even  the  sol- 


54        ,  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

diers  laughed  and  said  something  encouraging 
to  us  as  we  passed,  but  with  perfect  respect. 
Good-humor  seemed  the  order  of  the  day.  At 
the  Palais  Boyal,  one  of  the  courts  was  full  of 
soldiers,  peaceably  cutting  up  big  loaves  and 
undeniably  fraternizing  with  the  people,  at 
least  as  far  as  laughter,  jokes,  and  a  constant 
hand-shaking  going  on  through  the  railings. 

Growing  timid,  we  went  home  through  qui- 
et by-streets ;  but  in  the  afternoon,  having  the 
company  of  two  friends,  curiosity  prevailed, 
and-  we  went  out  again.  On  the  Boulevards 
we  found  a  deep,  dense  crowd,  especially 
before  all  the  great  cafes,  political  clubs,  etc., 
a  crowd  such  as  I  had  never  seen  in  Paris 
before.  Pound  Tortoni's  there  was  a  perfect 
mass,  knots  of  eager  politicians  of  all  classes 
and  in  all  states  of  mind;  wild  excitement 
burning  in  those  dark,  bearded  faces,  fiery 
eyes,  fierce,  rapid  gesticulation.  Impetuous 
harangues  were  poured  out  by  some  popular 
orator,  to  whom  the  others  listened  as  to  an 
oracle.  Oh,  what  strange  groups  I  saw!  what 
various  types  of  excited  faces !  Several  other 
ladies  were  passing,  but  all  curiosity,  all  inter- 
est, seemed  confined  to  us  English;  French- 
women moved  on  rapidly,  with  ennuye  looks; 
they  had  had  enough  of  revolutions. 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  55 

The  "Patrie,"  Louis  Napoleon's  especial  pa- 
per, was  being  noisily  sold  and  eagerly  bought 
at  every  step ;  we  got  one.  A  new  proclama- 
tion had  appeared,  an  address  of  the  presi- 
dent's to  the  army,  with  whom  he  identified 
himself  as  the  only  upholders  of  the  law  and 
guardians  of  public  liberty,  bade  them  vote 
freely  (for  him)  as  citizens,  but  obey  him  un- 
conditionally as  soldiers.  He  desired  them,  of 
course,  to  maintain  a  "  calm  and  imposing  at- 
titude," reminded  them  of  their  former  wrongs 
from  the  people,  how  they  had  been  "vain- 
cus  "  and  their  "  desinteressement  hero'ique  fle- 
tri"  by  calumny,  and  now  "he  wills  that  the 
army  shall  make  itself  heard." 

A  report  spread  that  the  immense  division 
of  cavalry  stationed  in  the  Champs  filysees 
was  preparing  for  movement,  drums  beating, 
dragoons  mounting.  We  flew  thither  in  time 
to  behold  a  splendid  spectacle ;  all  these  regi- 
ments, seven  or  eight  hundred  in  number, 
were  mounted  and  in  movement  all  down  that 
long  space  from  the  Barri&re  to  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde.  The  eye  was  filled  with  a  multi- 
tudinous unity  of  splendid  forms,  a  slow-mov- 
ing picture,  varying,  yet  compact.  Far  as  one 
could  see  those  long  avenues  were  one  shining 
mass  of  helmets  and  cuirasses  and  sword-belts, 


56  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO. 

which  flashed  back  the  sun  as  from  brilliant 
mirrors,  with  a  sea  of  scarlet  plumes  above, 
and  below  a  gay  confusion  of  red  and  azure. 
There  they  were  in  three  divisions,  cuirassiers, 
carabineers,  and  dragoons,  filling  up  the  middle 
of  that  wide  space  to  the  extent  of  nearly  two 
miles,  ten  or  twelve  abreast,  moving  on  with 
the  slow,  regular  tramp  of  their  horses7  feet, 
or  wheeling  all  at  once  lightly,  quickly,  and, 
noiselessly  round,  at  the  word  of  command 
given  by  some  splendid  aid  -  de  -  camp  .  as  he 
dashed  alongside  the  glittering  file,  while 
drums  and  trumpets  and  bugles  rang  from  the 
band  which  occupied  the  centre  with  their 
white  horses,  plumes,  and  sword-belts. 

Ere  long  appeared  the  president;  he  was 
received  (of  course)  with  shouts,  and  rode  sev- 
eral times  up  and  down  alongside  the  troops 
at  a  swift  gallop,  with  a  brilliant  staff  saluting 
as  they  cheered ;  they  then  slowly  defiled  off, 
to  the  sound  of  drums  and  trumpets,  till  the 
long,  long  succession  of  gorgeous  figures  had 
disappeared.  It  was,  though  nobody  knew 
this,  the  president's  last  public  appearance  for 
a  long  while ;  between  this  day  of  safety,  ere 
the  revolutionary  storm  had  arisen,  and  the 
one  when  it  had  sunk  to  rest  with  all  the 
wrecks  and  ruins  it  had  made,  he  remained 
hidden  in  well-guarded  security. 


THE  CO  UP  D  'ETA  T.  57 

This  magnificent  military  spectacle  I  heard 
described  by  Sibyl,  but  I  individually  lost  it. 
Before  we  entered  the  Champs  Elysees,  I  had 
become  so  tired  with  over-excitement,  that  I 
chose  indiscreetly  to  go  home  by  myself — a 
much  more  difficult  affair  than  we  had  reck- 
oned on,  and  I  was  dreadfully  frightened.  Al- 
most every  public  thoroughfare  was  closed, 
crowds  of  people  were  being  forced  back  by 
the  soldiers,  and,  as  I  went  along  the  Eue  St. 
Honore,  I  was  four  times  stopped  by  cordons 
of  soldiers  with  an  "  Ou.  allez-vous,  madame?" 
The  answer  "  Chez  moi"  passed  me  twice ;  the 
third  time,  after  some  hesitation  and  an  addi- 
tional supplication,  I  was  again  allowed  to 
pass ;  bub  the  fourth  I  was  repelled  by  bay- 
onets fixed  and  presented,  and  firm,  though 
civil,  refusal.  So  I  put  myself  under  the  pro- 
tection of  an  old  woman  near.  She  too  had 
been  turned  back,  and  was  crying  with  fright, 
weariness,  and  hunger,  and  she  had  been  out 
all  day.  Nothing  could  exceed  her  amaze- 
ment at  a  demoiselle  being  out  alone  at  such  a 
time ;  but  we  held  together,  and  at  last,  to  our 
mutual  thankfulness,  got  home  by  a  sideway. 

The  history  of  the  Coup  d'Etat  has  been  told 
by  many.  I,  a  girl,  shall  tell  only  what  I  saw 
with   my  own    eyes — without  comment,  too. 


58  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

which  is  safest ;  for,  though  I  was  a  girl,  I  felt 
like  a  woman — say  rather  a  man.  As  I  had 
told  M.  fimile,  I  was  the  fiercest  of  Kepublicans. 

We  went  out  early  on  Wednesday  morning 
to  see  another  review,  as  we  expected,  from  the 
number  of  soldiers  filling  the  Champs  Elysees, 
a  grand  scene  like  that  of  yesterday.  The 
cavalry  were  dismounted,  and  evidently  get- 
ting themselves  and  their  horses  ready  for  in- 
spection. The  horses  stood  somewhat  irregu- 
larly about  in  the  road,  their  gay  housings  on; 
but  they  themselves  were  busy  eating  the  ha}7 
brought  from  the  great  carts  that  stood  all 
round.  The  men,  some. leading  their  horses 
about,  some  feeding  them,  stood  some  loitering 
about,  or  getting  their  uniforms  in  order,  as 
was  need,  for  their  great  boots  were  splashed, 
and  they  themselves  looked  cold  and  jaded, 
but  inexhaustibly  good-humored.  There  were, 
as  before,  thousands  of  carabineers,  cuirassiers, 
and  dragoons,  whose  shining  armor  and  gay 
colors,  in  the  shifting  picturesque  confusion  of 
their  varied  movements  through  all  that  far- 
extending  line,  made  a  most  captivating  sight. 

Desirous  not  to  waste  our  morning,  we  ad- 
dressed a  good-humored-looking  young  cuiras- 
sier who  sat  idle  on  a  bench  by  the  way -side, 
and  asked  him  if  the  president  was  to  appear, 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  59 

and  when.  "  In  about  an  hour,"  he  said.  So 
we  determined  to  walk  as  far  as  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  and  by  the  time  we  were  back  we 
calculated  that  we  might  see  him  riding,  with 
all  his  staff,  down  that  long  Avenue  de  Ma- 
rigny. 

As  we  walked  on,  the  place  had  more  and 
more  the  appearance  of  a  bivouac.  The  troops 
had  evidently  spent  the  night  there ;  all  about 
the  Cirque  and  Franconi's  were  the  soldiers' 
little  bundles  neatly  done  up,  bayonets  stack- 
ed, bolsters,  tin  canisters,  all  most  carefully  ar- 
ranged. Stalls  containing  loaves  and  bottles 
of  wine  took  the  place  of  the  usual  stalls 
of  fruit  and  confectionery  ;  and  in  and  out 
among  the  soldiers  ran  the  smart  vivandieres, 
distributing  food  from  the  little  green-covered 
carts  by  the  way-side,  or  wine  from  the  cafes. 
They  were  charming  little  figures  in  their  fan- 
ciful costume  of  black  round  hat  and  feather, 
or  perhaps  a  braided  military  cap,  with  the 
feminine  addition  of  streaming  bright  ribbons, 
and  abundance  of  fancifully  plaited  or  ringlet- 
ed hair,  black  short  petticoat,  almost  a  military 
frock,  tight  red  trowsers,  and  sword  by  the 
side.  But  trim  as  were  their  figures,  their 
faces  were  not  very  young,  or  at  all  events  not 
very  fresh  ;    they  looked  somewhat  weather- 


CO  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

beaten  and  soldier-like.  But  I  liked  their  gay, 
frank  expression  ;  and  heard  with  pleasure  that 
they  mostly  bear  good  characters,  and  are  treat- 
ed with  great  respect  by  the  soldiers. 

Still  the  horses  continued  eating  the  hay 
which  was  scattered  all  over  the  ground;  the 
soldiers  still  smoked,  chatted,  danced  the  polka 
in  their  great  splashed  boots,  to  keep  them- 
selves warm ;  for,  after  a  drizzling  night,  it 
was  a  raw,  chilly  morning,  and,  though  nearly 
two  hours  had  elapsed,  things  were  no  way 
advanced.  As  we  walked  slowly  home,  the 
same  young  cuirassier  came  up  and  apologized 
with  great  politeness  for  having  misled  us 
about  the  president's  appearance.  "  But,"  said 
he,  "  we  know  no  more  than  any  one  else ;  we 
are  waiting  like  you  ;  and  it  is  not  very  amus- 
ing either,"  he  added,  with  a  good-humored 
laugh. 

I  asked  him  where  he  had  spent  the  night. 
"Ici  sur  la  terre,"  he  said,  pointing  downward, 
"  with  that  above  us,"  pointing  to  the  sky,  and 
cheerfully  owned  to  being  much  fatigued.  He 
was  a  herculean  young  fellow,  with  a  black 
beard  and  mustache,  through  which  his  voice 
came  with  a  mild  gruffness ;  and,  but  that  he 
continued  Smoking  while  "mesdames"  talked 
with  him,  he   had    very  good  manners.      He 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  61 

was,  too,  a  splendid  figure,  in  the  high  brazen 
helmet  and  crest,  the  bright  cuirass  and  white 
sword-belt,  with  all  the  gold  tagging  and  trap- 
ping, which  much  increased  his  size.  He  ask- 
ed us  if  we  were  not  acquainted  with  the  pres- 
ident, and  said,  laughingly,  "  He  is  not  much 
to  look  at:  tr^s-petit,  comme  9a,"  holding  his 
hand  a  moderate  way  above  the  ground,  with 
a  smile  that  seemed  conscious  of  his  own  large 
proportions  ;  "  no  taller  than  you,  madame  ; 
blond— pas  beau.     Not  like  his  uncle." 

At  last  the  vast  force  was  in-  motion ;  the 
men  mounted,  and  all  moved  up  and  down; 
but  the  president  came  not ;  and  we  observed 
that  they  all  looked  jaded  and  spiritless ;  their 
fine,  handsome  faces  had  a  sulky  expression, 
and  they  scarcely  sat  upright  on  their  horses. 
Presently  we  were  joined  by  an  acquaintance 
—  a  little,  sprightly,  brown -faced,  gray-mus- 
tached  man,  of  French  family  but  English 
bringing  up,  and  in  the  English  army.  He 
told  us  that  there  was  fighting  going  on  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  that  barricades  were  up, 
and  that  two  deputies  who  were  leading  the 
people  had  been  shot ;  and  that  there  were  or- 
ders given  to  shoot  any  deputy  who  might  be 
in  any  way  concerned  with  the  rising.  All 
the  line  consequently  were  there ;    fresh  regi- 


62  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ments  were  constantly  pouring  into  Paris,  and 
there  were  now  about  100,000  soldiers  within 
the  walls.  It  was  dreadful  to  contrast  this 
mere  glittering  show  of  war  drawn  up  here  in 
all  its  imposing  pageantry,  and  the  peaceable, 
idle,  careless  spectators  merety  staring  as  they 
passed,  with  the  hot,  bloody  work,  the  wild  and 
wicked  passions  that,  if  the  report  were  true, 
were  then  foaming  forth  at  the  other  end  of 
Paris. 

As  we  returned  home  with  our  friend,  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  cavalry,  who  still  per- 
formed the  farce  of  riding  up  and  down,  "Look 
at  those  gay  fellows ;  you  would  not  think 
that  in  '48  there  was  just  such  a  force  assem- 
bled here,  whom  we  saw  in  the  course  of  the 
day  lying  about  in  heaps,  dead  and  wounded, 
on  the  pavement,  or  carried  into  the  shops  and 
private  houses,  streaming  with  blood."  By 
way  of  a  contrast,  as  we  passed  a  gay  cafe  in 
the  Avenue,  with  its  "Commerce  de  Vins" 
conspicuous  at  the  top,  its  walls  painted  in  red 
panelling,  and  its  muslin-curtained  glass  door, 
we  saw  three  officers  of  the  carabineers  dis- 
mounted and  proceeding  towards  the  house. 
They  turned  round  to  look  at  us,  and  we  rec- 
ognized among  them  our  polite  young  friend 
of  the  morning.     All  were  cornets,  as  we  knew 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  63 

from  the  one  epaulette  on  the  right  shoulder, 
and  very  smart  they  looked,  with  their  polish- 
ed spurs,  and  swords  swinging  in  their  em- 
broidered belts.  All,  too,  were  in  high  spirits, 
and  very  frolicsome,  especially  one  fat  gentle- 
man of  thirty  and  upwards,  who  cut  pirouettes 
with  great  agility,  evidently  to  show  off  before 
us,  giving  each  other  the  pas  as  they  entered 
the  open  door  with  grotesque  politeness,  and 
evidently  intent  on  getting  extremely  tipsy  by 
way  of  wiling  away  the  dull  hours  of  duty. 

I  asked  where  the  president  was  all  this 
time — was  he  at  the  scene  of  conflict?  "Oh 
no,"  I  was  answered ;  "  he's  safe  enough  at 
the  Elysee ;  he'll  not  come  out  to-day,  depend 
on  it."  This  proved  true,  and  for  many  days 
afterwards.  In  fact,  he  took  care  through  all 
that  week  to  shroud  himself  in  obscurity ;  he 
never  slept  at  the  Elysee,  though  the  appear- 
ance of  his  being  there  was  kept  up.  It  is  be- 
lieved that  he  never  spent  two  nights  in  the 
same  place.  There  was,  no  doubt,  mortal  ter- 
ror within  those  palace  walls;  the  army  was 
strongly  suspected  of  a  disposition  to  fraternize 
with  the  people,  on  whom  it  was  thought  they 
would  assuredly  not  fire ;  and  there  was  cer- 
tainly in  the  soldiers  a  good-humored,  indiffer- 
ent bearing,  as  wrell  as  in  the  people  an  ab- 

4 


64  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

sence  of  alarm  or  antipathy  which  did  not 
look  like  much  danger  of  a  collision  between 
them. 

Events  thickened ;  but  I  tell  them  only  as 
they  affected  us.  One  evening  we  walked  on 
to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  to  pay  a  visit  to 
a  lady — a  Republican — whom  we  found  in  a 
state  of  furious  fermentation,  burning  with 
grief,  rage,  disgust,  and  yet  a  grim  satisfaction 
at  the  state  of  things,  as  too  bad  to  last,  and 
fixing  her  whole  soul  on  the  hope  of  a  steady, 
organized,  .legal  resistance. 

She  had  just  been,  she  said,  to  see  the  wife 
of  a  deputy,  and  found  her  and  her  husband 
in  a  state  of  frantic  joy.  The  husband  said, 
"I  suppose  you  are  come  to  congratulate  us; 
I'm  just  out  of  prison."  He  had,  in  fact,  been 
one  of  the  two  hundred  deputies  who  were 
arrested  in  the  rnairie  of  the  Rue  Grenelle, 
where  they  had  decreed  the  decheance  of  the 
president. 

They  had  just  got  the  decree  registered, 
when  the  Chasseurs  de  Vincennes  surrounded 
the  house  and  arrested  them.  From  six  in 
the  morning  till  ten  o'clock  at  night  did  that 
poor  wife  (like  many  others,  no  doubt)  wait 
for  her  husband's  return,  without  receiving  a 
word  of  news;    and  then  she  went   forth   to 

t 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  65 

seek  him.  She  was  a  timid,  delicate  woman, 
who  had  always  been  most  carefully  guarded 
and  cherished  ;  yet,  when  asked  how  she  dared 
run  such  a  risk,  she  had  said,  "No,  I  feared 
nothing.  If  stopped,  I  should  have  said  I  was 
the  wife  of  an  imprisoned  deputy,  and  called 
on  all  true  Frenchmen  to  assist  me  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve they  would."  At  length  she  was  direct- 
ed to  the  cavalry  barracks  at  the  Quai  d'Orsai, 
where  the  prisoners  had  been  temporarily  con- 
veyed, and  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  hus- 
band. Next  day  nearly  all  were  set  free : 
satisfied  with  having  recorded  their  protest, 
they  did  nothing  more.  '  Though  in  words  ten 
times  more  the  president's  enemies  than  ever, 
they  were  not  on  the  barricades,  nor  among  the 
victims  shot  or  deportes.  Louis  Napoleon's 
calculations,  it  appears,  were  right. 

While  we  were  talking,  our  friend's  husband 
came  in,  and  reported  that  there  was  fight- 
ing about  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  thirty-thousand 
insurgents  were  intrenched  behind  the  hotel, 
blockaded  by  the  cavalry,  and  the  Place  de 
Greve  was  full  of  artillery.  He  said  the  peo- 
ple appeared  to  be  rising  to  an  extent  which 
reminded  him  more  of  the  insurrection  in  1830 
than  of  any  emeute  since,  but  what  the  issue 
would  be  no  one  could  know.  Both  the  calm, 
E 


66  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

sweet-natured  husband  and  the  passionate  wife 
regarded  this  state  of  things  as  likely  to  lead 
to  good  ;  Louis  Napoleon,  they  said,  had  now 
deeply  and  hopelessly  compromised  himself, 
and  united  against  him  all  parties  and  all  the 
leading  men  of  the  country.  It  was  whisper- 
ed that  the  army  would  not  fight :  if  one  of 
the  generals  —  Cavaignac  or  Lamoriciere  — 
could  but  escape,  and  show  himself  to  the 
troops,  the  matter  would  be  settled  in  a  day. 

We  were  advised  to  go  home  by  the  smaller 
streets,  which  we  were  glad  to  do,  as  the  Kues 
du  Bac  and  de  l'Universite  were  evidently  in 
an  excited  state  ;  knots  of  people  crowded  the 
narrow  trottoir,  and  shoals  of  gamins  were  mov- 
ing in  one  direction.  In  the  Champs  Elysees 
we  met  our  cousin,  who  gave  us  fearful  tid- 
ings; the  fighting  was  coming  farther  and 
farther  west  from  the  Faubourgs  St.  Antoine 
and  St.  Martin,  where  it  had  first  begun :  it 
had  rolled  up  the  Boulevards  as  far  as  the  Eue 
Eichelieu,  where  barricades  had  been  thrown 
up.  All  the  troops  were  gathered  in  that  part 
of  the  town,  cannonading  and  musketry  going 
on  fiercely — a  complete  and  terrible  struggle 
being  acted  out  in  the  streets  of  Paris.  Hor- 
ace, as  a  true  Englishman— Frenchmen  know 
better  than  to  thrust  themselves  as  mere  curi- 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  67 

ous  spectators  into  danger — had  got  as  near 
the  agitated  parts  as  possible,  till  he  was  driven 
back  by  the  lancers,  who  rode  down  without 
scruple  all  passers-by.  The  scene  of  conflict 
was  chiefly  in  the  Boulevard  de  Montmartre, 
whence  he  heard  the  repeated  terrible  volleys 
of  musketry,  and  where  the  barricades  were 
forming.  Were  the  -people  in  truth  fighting 
or  not?  had  there  been,  as  was  reported,  shots 
fired  from  the  windows  ? 

In  the  evening  my  cousin  left  us  for  the 
reading-room,  to  ascertain  what  news  the  pa- 
pers gave.  Luckily  it  was  close  by,  and  in  a 
safe  quarter ;  and  we  were  left  in  a  nervous 
agitation,  taking  every  loud  slam  of  a  porte- 
cochere  down  the  street  for  distant  cannon. 
Then  came  horses'  hoofs  down  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  we  learned  that  a  detachment  of 
dragoons  had  been  dispatched  to  the  scene  of 
action.  We  sat  still,  and  shuddered  for  all 
that  was  passing  then. 

Just  as,  about  midnight,  I  was  writing  to 
my  family  in  England  that  all  was  safe  and 
quiet  in  our  quarter,  I  was  startled  by  sudden 
noises.  We  hurried  to  the  balcony,  and  stood 
out  in  the  dark  night  to  watch  in  trembling 
suspense  for  their  repetition  —  dreadful  and 
hitherto  unheard  sounds — volleys  of  musketry 


03  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  discharges  of  cannon.  How  near  they 
were  we  knew  not ;  but  the  insurgent  mass 
was  evidently  rolling  on  into  the  heart  of  the 
citjr,  and  it  might  be  that  the  conflict  was  now 
raging  round  the  Palais  de  l'filysee  itself.  If, 
I  thought,  he  who,  there  hidden  in  his  luxuri- 
ous abode,  was  throwing  Paris  into  the  horrors 
of  civil  war,  were  to  be  driven  ignominiously 
thence,  I  could  rejoice  even  in  these  terrible 
sounds. 

Three  discharges  came  one  after  another; 
then  they  stopped,  in  five  or  ten  minutes  to 
begin  again;  and  this  lasted  about  an  hour. 
Again  and  again  we  ran  into  the  balcony  to 
listen  ;  with  a  shuddering,  sickening  horror  we 
looked  into  the  dark,  still  town,  pierced  here 
and  there  with  silent,  shining  gas-light,  and 
heard  booming  on  the  midnight  air  that  huge 
voice  of  deliberate,  unpi tying  slaughter.  They 
came  in  solemn  discharges,  like  slow,  separate 
syllables  of  death,  I  had  heard  cannon  be- 
fore, but  never  at  night,  never  in  the  heart  of 
a  great  city,  and  never  as  the  voice  of  murder ; 
and  I  prayed  never  to  hear  such  sounds  again. 

In  an  hour,  as  I  said,  all  was  once  more 
quiet;  but  it  was  long  ere  I  slept;  horrible 
images  of  bloodshed  and  death  jostled  each 
other  in  my  brain. 


THE  COUP  D' ETAT.  CO 

Next  day  (Friday)  told,  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctly— for  truth  was  hard  to  get  at  in  those 
days  of  terror — the  tale  of  Thursday,  which  I 
will  here  give,  confirmed  as  it  was  by  careful 
after-inquiry.* 

-The  spirit  of  Paris  had,  as  we  have  said, 
been  stirred  at  last.  All  her  hopes  seemed  to 
lie  in  the  republican  bourgeoisie,  of  whom  the 
deputies  belonging  to  the  Mountain  were  the 
leaders.  The  ouvriers,  attracted  by  the  prom- 
ise of  universal  suffrage,  fancied  Louis  Napo- 
leon's sovereignty  to  be  for  their  interest,  and 
would  not  stir  for  the  classes  above  them, 
whom  they  hated.  The  most  respectable 
members  of  their  class  stood  aloof,  dreading 
nothing  so  much  as  the  rouges,  and  any  popu- 
lar agitation  which  might  bring  that  now  oow- 
ering  and  stifled  element  to,  the  top,  so  vivid 
was  their  remembrance  of  the  horrors  of  June, 
1848,  to  which  every  one  recurred  as  the  cli- 
max of  all  evil.  There  was  also  the  consider- 
ation, what  had  they  to  fight  for  ?  when  they 
had  overthrown  the  president,  who  was  there 
to  replace  him?  whom  could  they  confide  in? 

*  All  this  has  now  become  matter  of  history.  Still  it 
seems  well  to  give  it — given,  too,  as  history  so  seldom  is — 
from  the  observation  of  an  eye-witness,  chronicled  on  the 
spot. — Editor. 


70  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

what  hope  was  there  in  the  Assembled  or  its 
knots  of  selfish,  cowardly  intriguers  ? 

But  the  passionate  energy  of  the  Eepublican 
agitators  began  to  excite  others ;  from  an  ear- 
ly hour  in  the  morning  there  were  immense 
crowds  in  the  ordinary  places  of  meeting;  and 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  as  I  said,  masses  of 
insurgents  formed  behind  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
There  was  a  tone  of  fear  and  vacillation  in 
Louis  Napoleon's  proclamations;  it  was  said 
that  his  heart  was  failing  him.  The  army  re- 
quired working  up  to  a  certain  pitch ;  their 
pay  during  these  three  days  was  doubled,  and 
wine  and  food  were  distributed  in  abundance. 
The  agitation  went  on ;  a  barricade  monstre,  as 
the  newspapers  called  it,  recalling  those  of  '48, 
arose  in  the  Eue  St.  Denis ;  there  was  a  stir 
in  the  wealthy  and  fashionable  Boulevard  de 
Montmartre  and  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  amidst 
a  class  not  given  to  revolutionary  movements. 

The  Government  was  quietly  watching,  even 
encouraging  by  secret  agents  who  mixed  among 
the  crowd,  and  by  strange,  carefully -circulated 
rumors,  the  assemblages  who  were  thus  grad- 
ually presenting  themselves  for  the  important 
collision  that  was  certainly  desired  ;  the  troops 
were  kept  carefully  withdrawn,  looking  on,  and 
waiting  till  all  was  complete.     At  two  o'clock 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  71 

volleys  of  artillery  were  heard  to  proceed  from 
the  barricaded  quarters ;  the  emeutiers  were  in 
possession  of  the  faubourg  of  St.  Denis,  which 
was  evidently  in  sympathy  with  them.  Those 
who  defended  the  barricades  were  not,  it  is 
true,  in  number  to  oppose  to  any  effect  such 
masses  of  military ;  they  were  mostly  young 
men  of  good  bourgeois  families,  who,  desperate 
with  rage  and  shame  at  this  public  disgrace, 
were  determined  by  this  deliberate  offer  of 
their  lives  to  kindle  the  whole  population,  if 
possible ;  if  not,  at  any  rate  to  fall  in  a  last 
protest. 

The  troops  advanced;  the  slender  groups 
that  had  collected  about  the  barricades  were 
fired  on.  These  were  most  gallantly  defend- 
ed, but  after  a  more  or  less  prolonged  resist- 
ance all  were  taken,  and  by  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening  the  desperate  struggle  was  over.  The 
heaps  of  dead  were  found  to  consist  mainly  of 
well-dressed  young  men,  with  gold  chains  and 
watches,  and  "yellow  gloves,"  as  the  official 
reports  contemptuously  said ;  the  workmen 
who  were  found  mingled  among  them  were 
classed  as  "malefactors."  One  young  man, 
who  fell  towards  the  end  of  the  contest,  was  M. 
Denis  Dessoubs,  described  at  first  as  a  depu- 
ty, but  who  proved  to  be  the  brother  of  one, 


58  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

a  young  "montagnard,"  then  lying  ill.  Denis 
seized  his  brother's  official  scarf,  and,  thus  per- 
sonating him,  rushed  to  the  top  of  a  barricade 
in  the  very  face  of  the  troops,  and,  unarmed 
and  unprotected,  addressed  himself  to  the  sol- 
diers, crying,  "Vive  la  Kepublique !"  and  ad- 
juring them  to  join  him. 

The  colonel,  seeing  his  exaltation,  and  wish- 
ing to  spare  him,  said,  "Ketire!"  but  the  young 
man  answered  only,  "  Vive  la  Kdpublique  de- 
mocratique !"  was  fired  at  by  the  whole  troop, 
and  fell  dead  on  the  spot.  These  young  men, 
whether  wisely  or  not,  at  least  sacrificed  them- 
selves to  a  noble  object,  and  moreover  they  led 
others  into  no  risk  to  which  they  did  not  ex- 
pose themselves  first  of  all.  As  for  the  sol- 
diers, an  office  less  Mroique  (to  use  the  word 
liberally  bestowed  on  them  by  the  Govern- 
ment) than  that  of  shooting  down  their  fellow- 
citizens  can  scarcely  be  imagined.  Unfortu- 
nately, these  were  the  men  who  had  learned 
ferocity  in  Algeria;  the  Chasseurs  de  Vin- 
cennes  were  especially  noted  for  that  quality* 

But  something  yet  was  needed,  beyond  what 
the  necessary  force  for  dispersing  the  insur- 
gents called  for — something  to  strike  sudden, 
universal,  crushing  panic — and  it  was  supplied. 
At  three  o'clock  fearful  discharges  of  artillery 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  73 

were  suddenly  heard  on  the  Boulevards  Bonne 
Nouvelle,  Montmartre,  and  des  Italiens,  where, 
as  I  have  said,  crowds  were  collected,  but  there 
were  neither  barricades  nor  insurgents.  These 
sounds,  heard  in  the  western  quarters  shut  out 
by  masses  of  soldiery,  had  led  to  the  erroneous 
belief  that  the  fighting  had  extended  to  the 
Eue  Eichelieu.  It  was  in  reality  a  massacre. 
The  reports  that  oozed  out  next  day  of  soldiers 
firing  on  the  unarmed  crowds  in  the  streets 
and  into  the  houses,  were  regarded  by  the  ap- 
palled hearers  as  too  terrible  for  belief;  and 
though  even  Government  reports,  with  all ' 
their  reserves  and  palliations,  confirmed  these 
tales,  the  whole  horrible  truth  was  long  in  be- 
coming known  to  the  world  in  general.  But 
it  is  known  now. 

At  three  o'clock,  then,  the  crowd  on  these 
Boulevards,  separated  only  by  a  few  steps 
from  the  soldiers,  were  absolutely  inoffensive 
and  peaceable — men,  women,  and  children  con- 
versing among  themselves  or  with  the  soldiers. 
All  of  a  sudden  a  round  of  musketry  is  pour- 
ed among  them ;  they  start,  huddle  together, 
fall  back  astonished,  struck  with  fright  at  the 
sight  of  the  corpses  dropping  around  them ; 
they  endeavor  to  fly,  discharge  follows  dis- 
charge, and  in   a  minute  the   streets  present 


74  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

the  appearance  of  a  living  crowd  turned  into 
heaps  of  dead  and  wounded.  This  was  not 
all ;  the  soldiers  then  fired  into  the  balconies 
and  windows  of  those  stately  houses,  where 
well-dressed  groups  were  standing;  in  many 
cases  the  balls  penetrated  into  the  rooms ;  the 
terror-struck  inhabitants  fled  into  the  back 
rooms ;  discharges  of  cannon  mingled  with  the 
artillery  and  battered  the  walls.  Their  fury 
increasing,  though  no  resistance  was  offered, 
the  soldiers  in  many  cases  rushed  into  the 
houses,  and  arrested,  shot,  or  bayoneted  the 
inhabitants. 

This  scene  of  carnage  lasted  for  twenty  min- 
utes, when,  at  length,  the  firing  was  stopped 
and  most  of  the  troops  retired  ;  but  the  Boule- 
vards remained  in  military  occupation,  and 
given  up  to  a  stupefaction  of  dismay.  This 
impression  quickly  spread  over  the  whole  of 
Paris,  and  from  that  time  resistance  was  no 
more. 

Was  there  any  immediate  cause  for  this 
strange  horror?  Official  accounts  spoke  in  a 
vague  and  self-contradictory  manner  of  a  shot, 
some  said  several  shots,  fired  from  the  win- 
dows of  one  or  more  of  the  handsomest  houses 
upon  the  troops,  for  which  this  general  attack 
on   the   unarmed  throngs   and  the  peaceable 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT,  75 

houses  was  the  retaliation.  Eye  -  witnesses 
spoke  of  one  or  two  stray  shots  heard  in  some 
unknown  direction  at  the  head  of  the  column 
towards  the  Porte  St.  Denis,  where  the  conflict 
was  actually  going  on ;  this  was  the  whole 
cause,  or  rather  pretext,  of  the  massacre.  It 
was  said,  and  believed,  that  many  of  the  sol- 
diers were  intoxicated ;  it  is  certain  that  they 
had  had  double  rations,  and  were  in  a  very  ex- 
cited state. 

Among  the  cases  talked  of  at  the  time,  with 
grief  and  pity,  were  that  of  an  English  apothe- 
cary, who  was  merely  crossing  a  street  near 
Tortoni's,  and  stopping  to  speak  to  an  old 
man,  when  both  were  fired  at  and  fell  dead ; 
of  a  librarian,  who  was  shot  sitting  quietly 
with  his  family ;  of  a  child  killed  while  play- 
ing in  the  street.  Twenty-seven  corpses  were 
seen  in  a  heap  before  the  door  of  the  splendid 
Hotel  Sallandrouze.  The  official  accounts 
contained  an  appalling  list  of  persons,  each 
"  tu£  chez  lui." 

The  Government  lists  of  the  slaughtered  on 
this  occasion  varied  considerably:  from  the 
final  one  given  by  the  "Moniteur"  the  num- 
ber would  seem  to  have  been  about  two  hun- 
dred. But  there  is  every  reason  to  suppose 
that  it  was  really  far  beyond  this,  though  the 


76  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

full  amount  of  slaughter  can  never  now  be 
known.  The  brigades  employed  in  this  busi- 
ness were  commanded  by  General  Canrobert. 

After  this  Louis  Napoleon  was  called  by 
himself  and  his  admirers  the  "  Saviour  of  So- 
ciety." 

Next  day  all  was  tranquil ;  it  was  the  hush 
of  terror.  The  Champs  filysees  was  compara- 
tively empty  of  soldiers;  there  were  a  few 
scattered  knots,  the  remainder  of  those  who 
had  bivouacked  there ;  fires  at  which  they 
were  cooking  their  dinners  were  lighted  here 
and  there.  Stacks  of  hay  were  on  the  pave- 
ment, the  horses  were  drawn  off  and  stationed 
among  the  trees ;  but  along  the  other  side  of 
the  quays  were  troops  of  lancers  and  cara- 
bineers. 

Not  a  single  lady  was  abroad,  but  numbers 
of  idle  men,  especially  workmen  enjoying  a 
holiday,  and  sauntering  along  with  careless, 
insolent  looks.  Sibyl  and  I  were  much  struck 
with  the  numbers  of  ill-looking  persons  out ; 
one  could  almost  tremble  at  these  strange  sav- 
ages in  blouses,  with  their  small  black  caps, 
treading  fiercely  on,  as  if  caring  for  nobody, 
with  an  intense  unmoving  stare  in  their  eyes, 
as  though  dreaming  of  future  murders.  I  nev- 
er saw  them  without  saying  to  myself,  "These 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  77 

are  the  men  who,  when  revolution  gets  the 
upper  hand,  will  one  day  drench  Paris  with 
blood."  Never  did  I  behold  such  a  look  of 
smothered  hell-fire — so  to  speak — as  there  is 
in  these  French  eyes. 

Strangely,  after  all  this,  comes  round  the 
reception-night  of  Madame  Gibbs.  We  had 
wished  to  go  there  to  hear  more  on  the  ab- 
sorbing subject  of  the  day;  but  our  concierge 
and  servants  strongly  advised  us  against  it, 
as  there  was  no  knowing  what  disturbances 
might  spring  up  again.  Ill-disposed  persons, 
they  said,  were  sure  to  assault  people  in  a 
carriage,  and  took  particular  pleasure  in  drag- 
ging out  the  occupants — if  ladies,  sometimes 
with  great  violence — and#  using  their  vehicle 
to  form  the  barricades.  We  could,  no  doubt, 
have  found  some  gentleman  to  accompany  and 
protect  us ;  indeed,  my  grave  English  cousin 
was  tranquilly  ready  for  any  act  of  fool-hardi- 
ness. But  we  did  not  think  ourselves  justified 
in  exposing  them  to  danger  in  order  to  protect 
us ;  so  we  curbed  our  wild  feminine  courage — 
as  well  as  curiosity — and  staid  at  home. 

In  the  course  of  that  day  and  the  next  we 
learned  enough — only  too  much. 

In  spite  of  the  reserve  produced  by  alarm, 
grief  and  anxiety  could  not  be  quite  suppress- 


78  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ed.  There  were  many  women  among  the  low- 
er classes  whose  husbands  were  out,  and  had 
not  returned  ;  our  cook  and  dress-maker  were 
among  these. 

A  Greek  gentleman  of  high  character,  whom 
we  met  occasionally,  had  himself  heard  the 
colonel  of  a  regiment  of  chasseurs  order  his 
men  to  fire  on  any  one  who  should  obstruct 
their  way  in  the  streets,  to  his  horror,  for  his 
own  two  boys  were  at  a  school  at  the  end  of 
it,  and  would  be  returning  just  as  they  passed. 
In  spite  of  his  entreaties,  he  was  not  permitted 
to  go  to  them,  but  managed  to  send  a  message 
by  a  sergeant  to  bid  the  boys  keep  where  they 
were  till  the  streets  were  quiet.  While  he 
waited  he  saw  plar^ks  being  laid  along  the 
streets  to  soak  up  and  hide  the  blood. 

So  all  was  quiet — and  now  came  out  a  new 
proclamation.  The  prince-president  congratu- 
lated Paris  on  the  "  fermete  et  le  devouement 
inebranlables,"  whereby  he  and  that  brave 
army  (always,  he  says,  foremost  in  preserving 
order)  had  defended  them  from  the  attacks  of 
a  factious  rabble,  and  restored  all  good  citizens 
to  peace  and  security.  "  Whatever  became  of 
him,  the  country  was  saved ;"  and  he  appeals 
to  the  army  to  shed  no  more  French  blood ;  if 
they  did  not  wish  for  him  they  were  to  vote 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  79 

against  him — he  would  gladly  retire ;  but  in 
the  mean  time  Paris  had  shown  her  unanimous 
devotion  to  him  in  the  way  she  had  combined 
to  put  down  these  partial  and  contemptible 
seditions. 

I  collected  a  heap  of  these  proclamations  as 
specimens  of  the  style  of  address  most  persua- 
sive to  the  French  mind.  One  would  scarcely 
have  imagined  a  great,  intelligent  nation,  and, 
above  all,  one  keenly  alive  to  ridicule,  uniting 
to  compose  and  accept  such  inflated,  vain-glo- 
rious, self-contradictory  productions  as  appeals 
to  their  reason  and  conscience,-  knowing,  as  all 
did,  the  source  from  which  they  emanated,  and 
the  motives  betrayed  at  every  turn  by  the  act- 
ors. But  all  this,  alas!  seems  nothing  to  the 
French ;  be  the  mask  as  transparent  as  it  will, 
let  actor  and  spectator  alike  know  the  farce 
they  are  performing,  so  long  as  the  mask  is 
worn,  so  long  as  the  farce  imitates  something 
grand  and  heroic,  they  are  satisfied.  How  long 
will  a  great  nation  contentedly  sanction  this 
glaring  contradiction  between  profession  and 
practice  ?  and  when  will  it  cease  to  respond  to 
intriguers,  scape-graces,  and  imbeciles,  who  bla- 
zon themselves  as  heroes  and  men  of  genius  ? 

And  so  the  week  was  over,  and  all  was  over 
with  Paris  too — that  is,  she  was  quiet.      Mur- 


80  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

der  had  stilled  her  fierce,  foaming  streets ;  in- 
stead of  the  barricades  were  heaps  of  corpses ; 
and  she  lay  crouched  at  her  master's  feet,  mak- 
ing him  omnipotent  by  seeming  to  think  him  so. 

Yes,  the  struggle  was  over,  and  we  stood 
looking  on  at  its  ashes,  wondering  what  had 
become  of  the  burning  anger  of  which  we  had 
heard  so  much  :  had  a  few  false  proclamations, 
a  few  discharges  of  musketry,  dispersed  it  into 
thin  air?  Alas!  it  had  flamed  but  in  the 
hearts  of  a  few  ardent  young  men,  and  had 
been  quenched  in  blood  on  those  hopeless 
barricades,  where  they  had  stood  passionate, 
though  despairing,  solitary  marks  in  the  face 
of  the  levelled  muskets  of  a  regiment,  and  had 
fallen,  trying  to  kindle  the  people  in  a  hopeless 
cause. 

All  was  over;  and  —  with  us  strangers — a 
dreary,  scornful  surprise  began  to  take  the 
place  of  the  strong,  sad  emotions  with  which 
we  had  watched  those  three  days,  feeling  such 
deep  sympathy  for  a  nation  that  apparently 
could  not  feel  for  itself. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  we  ventured,  under 
my  cousin's  escort,  to  visit  the  Boulevards,  go- 
ing as  far  as  the  original  scene  of  conflict,  the 
quartiers  St.  Denis  and  St.  Martin,  a  walk  of 
about  five  miles.     The  long,  long  boulevards 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  81 

were  one  sea  of  heads;  nothing  else  was  to  be 
seen  into  the  far  vista  where  they  descend  to 
the  Porte  St.  Martin,  and  then  again  seem  to 
mount  and  be  lost  in  the  air.  The  day  after 
the  conflict  the  pavement  had  still  been  soak- 
ed with  blood;  but  all  was  now  clean  again, 
and  the  long  line  of  beautiful  houses,  whose 
ground-floors  were  brilliant  shops,  and  their 
upper  stories  the  luxurious  abodes  of  wealth, 
were  setting  forth,  below,  behind  their  wide 
plate-glass  fronts,  their  glittering  jewelry,  lace, 
and  silks,  while  above  paper-stuffed  windows 
or  blank  empty  frames  and  bullet-dinted  walls 
told  the  frightful  tale  of  so  few  days  ago. 

It  was  strange  with  what  lightness  and  vig- 
or Paris 

"  Opened  forth  for  fresh  display 
The  elastic  vanities  of  yesterday, " 

while  all  these  splendid  shops,  cafes,  bankers' 
houses,  and  private  hotels  stood  full  of  holes 
as  the  most  wretched  hovels  in  the  most  squal- 
id streets. 

In  the  wide,  handsome  Boulevard  des  Ital- 
iens,  the  first  object  of  interest  was  the  Cafe  de 
Paris,  of  which,  it  was  said,  all  the  inhabitants 
had  been  killed,  not  by  firing  from  without, 
for  the  windows  were  untouched,  but  by  mas- 
sacre within. 

F 


82  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO.    . 

All  the  houses  on  the  south  side,  and  many 
on  the  north  side,  were  injured ;  and  more  and 
more  were  the  marks  of  violence  as  we  ad- 
vanced. The  most  dilapidated  of  all  was  the 
house  from  which  it  was  at  first  falsely  assert- 
ed that  the  fatal  shot  had  come — the  magnifi- 
cent Hotel  Sallandrouze.  In  the  Boulevard 
Montmartre  the  sight  was  still  more  frightful : 
round  the  corner  was  a  tailor's  establishment 
shattered  by  cannon ;  then  a  porcelain  shop 
with  ruined  door-posts,  and  shutters  closed  be- 
hind the  empty  frames,  telling  of  death  and 
mourning  within.  At  last  there  was  scarce- 
ly a  house  with  windows  unbroken  ;  most  of 
them,  with  their  five  or  six  stories,  were  rid- 
dled from  attic  to  ground-floor.  And  these, 
be  it  remembered,  were  all  in  the  scene,  not 
of  fighting,  but  of  massacre. 

The  Boulevards  de  Bonne  Nouvelle  and 
Poissonniere,  where  street-fighting  had  been, 
were  less  injured ;  but  the  Corps  de  Garde  at 
the  end,  standing  on  the  highest  point  of  the 
hill  that  descends  to  Porte  St.  Denis,  showed 
the  rough  handling  of  the  insurgents,  and  the 
soldiers  at  the  door  looked  very  sulky.  It 
stirred  my  indignation,  as  we  gazed  on  the 
sad  sights  all  round,  to  behold  two  soldiers  of 
the  line  stopping  to  point  at  one  of  the  most 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  83 

ruined  houses,  and  laughing  with  an  air  of 
triumph. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  descent  on  the  other 
side  stood  the  now  too  renowned  gates  —  the 
Porte  St.  Denis,  the  very  centre  and  heart  of 
'  the  desperate  struggle  of  Thursday ;  a  little 
beyond  is  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  the  space  be- 
tween the  two  gates  having  been  filled  with  in- 
surgents. At  the  door  of  a  shop  (a  marchande 
de  modes)  stood  a  pretty  young  woman  mak- 
ing up  a  cap.  We  spoke  to  her ;  she  came 
forward,  working  and  talking  to  us  on  the  late 
events  with  a  very  surprising  levity,  which 
displeased  us  in  spite  of  Tier  pretty  looks  and 
nice  manners. 

"  Had  there  been  much  fighting  ?"  we  asked, 
by  way  of  a  beginning. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said,  with  a  saucy  smile ; 
"mais  nous  y  sommes  habitues." 

The  barricade,  she  said,  had  extended  across 
the  whole  wide  road,  but  it  was  not  well 
made ;  she  evidently  thought  scorn  of  it  com- 
pared with  those  of  former  emeutes.  She  said 
there  were  messieurs  leading  the  people,  as  was 
customary  ;.  they  would  not  rise  of  themselves 
without  some  such  excitement.  The  troops, 
she  said,  fired  into  all  the  windows  without 
any  distinction,  if  any  one  looked  out  of  them  ; 


81  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

she  had  remained  hidden  in  the  house  all  the 
time. 

I  observed,  not  very  reflectively,  that  I 
should  have  been  tempted  to  look  out. 

"If  you  had,  you  would  have  been  killed," 
she  said,  laughing. 

She  would  not  own  to  having  taken  either 
part,  saying  that  the  best  course  on  all  such 
occasions  was  to  remain  tranquil.  During  the 
whole  conversation,  though  she  was  very  po- 
lite, her  laughing  manner  never  ceased,  and 
we  quitted  her,  trying  to  find  in  her  "  nous  y 
sommes  habitues  "  the  apology  not  un needed. 

Next  day  we  went  to  the  cemetery  of  Pere 
la  Chaise;  and  strange  was  the  cold,  dumb 
solitude  of  that  place  of  sleep  high  over  the 
blood-stained  and  agonized  city.  We  asked 
our  guide,  as  we  gazed  from  the  height  at 
Mont  St.  Val^rien,  whether  the  generals  were 
still  confined  there.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
said,  diplomatically,  this  was  not  the  place  for 
politics ;  it  was  the  only  spot  where  all  such 
things  were  shut  out.  Nevertheless,  we  asked 
where  those  who  fell  in  the  emeute  had  been 
buried,  and  he  pointed  to  a  spot  far  down,  a 
portion  of  gr6und  lately  taken  in,  with  rough, 
heavy,  wet  soil,  where  small  white  tombstones 
looked  like  pieces  of  chalk  stuck  about,  and 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT.  85 

where  ten  or  twelve  bodies  had  been  crowded 
in.  But  the  greater  part,  he  said,  had  been 
buried  at  Montmartre,  where  all  the  unclaimed 
bodies  were  convej^ed :  of  the  thirty -eight 
lately  laid  there  all  but  three  had  been  rec- 
ognized. The  chef  des  barricades  had  been 
brought  by  his  friends  to  Pere  la  Chaise,  and 
buried  as  a  martyr.  He  told  us  also  of  a  Pol- 
ish count  who  had  joined  the  rouges  and  fallen 
in  the  struggle.  All  this  he  said  in  English, 
for  fear  of  being  overheard. 

All  this  time  arrests  were  occurring  almost 
daily,  till  the  prisons  were  crowded  with  their 
inmates,  and  banishments  and  deportations  fol- 
lowed in  shoals:  two  thousand  were,  on  one 
occasion,  sent  to  Algeria.  It  may  be  imagined 
how  often  in  those  days  social  meetings  were 
turned  to  scenes  of  sorrow.  One  could  scarce- 
ly meet  a  French  acquaintance  who  had  not 
his  tale  to  tell  of  dearest  friends  just  seized, 
without  warning,  perhaps  at  night,  and  shipped 
off,  unseen,  untried,  to  deadly  climates  for  cap- 
tivity or  life-long  exile. 

But  these  things  were  done  in  silence  and 
spoken  of  in  whispers.  After  the  first  blank 
terror  a  discreet  reserve  and  sullen  indifference 
seemed  to  prevail.  This  mixture  of  fear  and 
apathy  struck  me  so  much  that,  discoursing  on 


86  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

it  to  our  very  clever  and  spirited  bonne,  Con- 
stance, I  permitted  myself  to  say  something 
about  lachete.  Instantly  her  French  blood 
was  up,  and  she  told  me  that  an  English  de- 
moiselle knew  nothing  about  it,  and  that  it  was 
extraordinary  to  find  people  of  education  so 
homes,  and  that  the  poor  had  a  much  juster 
notions  of  things ;  that  we  believed  all  we  had 
heard  in  the  salons,  which  was  told  us  out  of 
persiflage,  and  for  our  belief,  in  which  we  were 
afterwards  laughed  at.  When  she  grew  cool- 
er, she  allowed  that  there  was  not  much  to  be 
said  for  Louis  Napoleon,  whom  she  professed 
not  to  love  pour  sa  personne ;  but  it  was  still 
that  terrible  bugbear,  les  rouges,  les  rouges. 
Truly,  by  their  own  showing,  the  French  are 
in  a  pitiable  condition.  Can  it  then  be  that  a 
great,  proud,  brave  nation  has  no  alternative 
between  putting  its  neck  under  a  usurper's 
heel  or  giving  its  throat  to  a  gang  of  monsters? 
What  a  sight,  that  of  a  whole  people  crawling 
to  Louis  Napoleon's  feet,  and  piteously  crying, 
"  Take  our  liberties ;  only  protect  us  from 
these  dreadful  rouges,  who  are  coming  to  seize 
our  money  and  cut  our  throats!" 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUR. 


CHAPTER  III. 

M.    LE    PROFESSEUR. 

WELL,  the  short  and  sharp  struggle  was 
over ;  Paris  was  trampled  in  the  dust, 
and  her  liberties  were  no  more.  But  still  she 
must  meet  and  talk  about  her  humiliation,  if 
about  nothing  else.  And  we  too  went  out, 
though  only  among  those  with  whom  we  sym- 
pathized. We  sought  Madame  Gibbs's  demo- 
cratic salons,  prepared  to  meet  men  who,  we 
were  told,  felt  with  varied  agonies  of  rage, 
grief,  and  shame,  that  France  had  now  lost  her 
place  among  the  nations.  As  I  entered  I 
thought  especially  of  M.  Lamourette,  who,  I 
had  heard,  was  in  such  deep  dejection  as  to 
go  about  ashamed  of  being  a  Frenchman,  and 
wishing  himself  un  Anglais.  As  I  well  knew 
my  friend's  particular  feelings  about  my  coun- 
trymen, I  did  full  justice  to  this  expression  of 
humiliation. 

The  rooms,  were  crowded,  but  as  soon  as  I 
entered  I  recognized  the  voice  of  the  sorrow- 
ing patriot ;  I  knew  him  at  once  by  the  loud- 
ness of  his  hilarit}'.     He  was  there  beside  a 


S8  TWENTY  YEA1ZS  AGO. 

fair,  quiet  young  lady,  who  stood  statue-like,  in 
graceful  calm,  presiding  at  the  tea-table,  him- 
self pouring  out  words  and  gesticulation  fast  as 
shot,  and  evidently  doing  the  intensely  agree-- 
able.*  The  aspect  of  the  w7hole  party,  indeed, 
was  not  other  than  that  of  men,  I  am  glad 
to  say,  in  excellent  health  and  spirits.  To  be 
sure,  whenever  we  talked  politics,  the  same 
strain  would  be  renewed ;  produced,  as  I 
thought,  by  the  mortifying  consciousness  that 
they  ought  to  have  prevented  the  coup  d'etat, 
and  had  not  done  so.  Formerly  I  had  thought 
that  keen  sense  of  public  deterioration  a  hope- 
ful sign.  I  knew  not  what  to  say  of  it  now ; 
I  wanted  deeds,  not  words. 

But  here  comes  the  facetious  professor,  slid- 
ing up  to  me  glass  in  eye,  with  a  couple  of 
bows,  and  the  sprightly  inquiry,  "Eh  bien,  ma- 
demoiselle, gardez-vous  toujours  vos  prejuges 
atroces  —  etes-vous  convertie  a  nous?"  and  I 
must  prepare  myself  not  for  sympathetic  polit- 
ical bewailings,  but  for  a  hurricane  of  wit  and 
fun.  So  I  plunged  at  once  into  warfare;  and 
in  a  little  while  he  turned  to  a  very  clever- 
looking  philosophical  Frenchman,  who  came 
up  for  a  moment  to  listen,  with  "I  can  not 
persuade  mademoiselle  that  we  are  not  ser- 
pents."   "  Tandis  que  nous  ne  sommes  que  des 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUR.  89 

colombes,"  is  the  rejoinder,  with  the  meekest 
air  possible. 

Presently  M.  Lamourette  put  the  trying  ques- 
tion— the  question  of  questions — "Did  I  think 
the  French  resembled  monkeys?"  He  would 
have  an  answer,  he  repeated,  and  urged  the 
question.  Driven  into  a  corner,  my  politeness 
or  my  French  failed  me,  or  some  demon  im- 
pelled me  to  a  caricature  of  sincerity ;  I  said, 
"  Un  peu."  It  was  very  stupid  of  me,  and  I 
felt  it  so,  when  I  saw  his  joyous  expression 
change  to  a  grave,  even  chagrined  one.  He 
went  on  to  attack  Englishwomen  (almost  seri- 
ously) as  cruel  and  unfeeling.  "As  savages," 
he  said,  "wore  suspended  to  their  waists  the 
heads  of  their  enemies,  so  did  the  Englishwom- 
en take  people's  hearts,  and  hang  them  up  as 
trophies."  He  took  his  revenge;  an  English- 
woman's masculine  beau-ideal,  he  asserted,  was 
a  tambour -majeur  (none  of  my  French  friends, 
I  may  observe,  measured  five  feet  seven);  and 
who,  with  true  insular  brutishness,  showed  his 
devotion  to  the  woman  he  loved  by  trampling 
her  under  foot  on  all  occasions. 

After  contradicting  him  moderately,  I  then, 
to  soothe  his  injured  feelings,  allowed  the 
French  to  be  amiable,  infinitely  agreeable,  full 
of  talent. 


90  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

"Yes,  yes,  we  understand  all  that,"  he  inter- 
rupted, in  tones  of  exaggerated  humility,  "  gra- 
cieux,  mais  singes  encore." 

Unfortunate  confession  of  mine!  when  will 
it  be  forgotten? 

At  last  I  took  courage  and  said,  "It  sur- 
prises me  to  see  you  all  so  gay  and  enjoues  af- 
ter having  just  gone  through  such  frightful 
experiences." 

"  Distinguons,  mademoiselle,"  was  his  an- 
swer, in  true  French  and  professional  style. 
"Je  vais  vous  expliquer  cela."  On  the  sur- 
face, no  doubt,  and  in  the  excitement  of  a  sa- 
lon, we  seem  gay.  But,  were  you  to  pass  in 
the  street  the  same  men  whom  you  have  just 
seen  laughing  in  a  salon,  you  would  meet  one 
face  more  sombre,  ferocious,  and  conspirator- 
looking  than  another,  and  when  you  came  to 
the  gloomiest  of  all,  that  would  be  mine. 

"Frenchmen,"  he  continued,  now  very  seri- 
ously, "are  totally  misunderstood.  Their  so- 
ciety-manners are  all  assumed ;  in  heart  they 
are  timid,  diffident,  prone  to  trust,  to  be  im- 
pressed and  carried  away  like  children,  credu- 
lous and  innocent,  with  no  strength  of  will, 
and  made  to  be  governed." 

"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "it  is  better  to  be 
a  Frenchwoman."    "  C'est  vrai,  mademoiselle; 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUR.  91 

in  all  houses  the  women  reign  sovereign,  and 
the  men  are  absolutely-  passive.  There  they 
have  the  good  sense  to  know  their  nullity; 
but  in  the  world  they  are  always  acting  a 
part,  and  assuming  a  character  to  which  they 
have  no  pretensions.  One  man  will  play  mis- 
anthrope, another  will  try  to  pass  for  a  heart- 
less persifleur,  another  for  the  subtle,  unprinci- 
pled intriguer  and  conspirator — whereas  they 
are  incapable  of  conspiring,  not  being  able  to 
keep  a  secret,  or  to  remain  in  the  same  mind 
for  a  day  together." 

But  the  professor  had  at  this  moment  an- 
other care  which,  I  thought,  weighed  heavier 
on  him  than  the  public  grief — a  course  of  lec- 
tures which  he  had  to  deliver  at  one  of  the  col- 
leges. He  had  just  begun  it,  and  was  more 
troubled  in  his  mind  by  it  than  I  thought  such 
a  clever  man  need  have  been.  He  had  return- 
ed unwillingly  to  his  work,  having  put  it  off 
as  long  as  he  could,  and,  I  fancy,  occupied 
himself  in  the  interval  with  any  thing  but  the 
appropriate  studies.  And  now  he  was  haunt- 
ed by  the  coming  lecture — whether  he  rode, 
or  danced,  or  chatted,  it  was  always  in  his 
head.  His  only  idea  of  paradise  was  to  live  a 
whole  week  without  thinking;  at  present,  he 
said,  he  was  not  an   "  etre  humain  " — only  a 


92  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO. 

machine.  He  complained  of  the  mass  of  facts 
which  he  had  to  read  up  for  a  lecture  of  scarce 
an  hour's  length,  which  he  had  no  time  to  di- 
gest, and  had  all  in  confusion  in  his  head.  It 
kept  him  up  all  the  previous  night,  he  said ; 
and  in  the  morning  he  could  not  breakfast — 
his  throat  was  dried  up.  "  If  I  could  only  eat 
and  sleep,"  said  he,  "I  might  do  better." 

All  this  he  seemed  anxious  to  explain,  to 
account  for  what  he  feared  might  be  thought 
the  insufficiency  and  want  of  interest  of  his 
lectures.  Sibyl  had  attended  one,  and  he  was 
evidently  fearful  that  she  had  not  been  suffi- 
ciently entertained.  I  said  his  subject  had 
been  a  little  dry. 

"Oh,  but  wait,"  he  said;  "I  am  going  to 
lecture  on  Shakspeare  and  on  les  drames  *de 
l'amour,  and  then  I  shall  be  plus  gai  et  im- 
petueux." 

I  told  him  I  was  sorry  he  was  to  take 
Shakspeare  for  his  subject,  as  I  had  a  convic- 
tion it  was  one  no  Frenchman  could  under- 
stand. 

"Vous  verrez!  vous  verrez!"  he  answered, 
with  confidence. 

I  now  discovered  in  my  friend  a  full  share 
of  what  is  affirmed  of  Frenchmen,  that,  with 
the  appearance  of  the  happiest  self-conceit, 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUM.  93 

they  are  in  reality  sensitive,  most  uncomfort- 
ably self-conscious,  and  afraid  of  ridicule.  He 
complained  of  the  additional  constraint  caused 
by  the  nature  of  his  audience,  part  of  whom 
were  demoiselles,  before  whom  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  discourse  "sur  l'amour  et  la  jalousie." 
"  Not,"  as  he  explained,  "  that  I  can  perceive 
that  the  demoiselles  object  to  it  at  all,  but  the 
mothers  look  indignant,  and  declare  that  their 
daughters  know  nothing,  and  ought  to  know 
nothing,  of  such  things.  Ah,  ciel !  c'est  bien 
difficile  pour  un  homme  modeste  et  delicat  com- 
me  moi  de  se  bien  comporter  dans  ces  cas-ci." 

"Et  puis,"  he  went  on  in  tones  more  injured 
still,  "there  come  elderly  females  with  baskets, 
who  in  the  middle  of  the  lecture  take  out  of 
them  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  bread  and  cheese, 
and  eat  and  drink  in  my  very  face  just  when  I 
am  trying  to  be  most  interesting — cela  me  de- 
range horriblement." 

Having  relieved  himself  thus  far,  the  afflict- 
ed professor  announced  "  qu'il  fallait  se  sacri- 
fler,"  and  went  off  to  waltz  and-polk  with  sev- 
eral very  pretty  girls,  to  whom  he  surrendered 
himself  with  an  admirably  got -up  air  of  en- 
joyment. I  saw  him  at  intervals  flitting  and 
whisking  about  the  room,  and,  when  for  the 
moment  he  had  no  young  ladies  to  talk  to, 


94  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

playing  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  like  a 
kitten  with  her  tail. 

But  my  part  of  confidante  and  consoler  to 
Madame  Gribbs's  guests  was  not  yet  done. 
Two  more  sufferers  engaged  my  attention — a 
struggling  artist  and  a  despairing  Eepublican. 
The  artist  was  a  melancholy  genius,  interest- 
ing as  a  man  of  sensitive  imagination,  and  ad- 
mirable because,  by  being  steadfastly  true  to 
his  own  inspiration,  he  condemned  himself  to 
present  ill -success  and  poverty.  As  for  the 
Eepublican,  no  personal  sorrow  occupied  him, 
no  garrulous  complaint  soothed  his  pain,  nor 
could  any  by-play  of  raillery,  polking,  or  pret- 
ty young  ladies  distract  it.  /  rather  scmght 
him  out  than  he  me.  A  quiet  dejection  sat 
on  his  countenance,  he  spoke  little  and  very 
low,  and  seemed  afraid  to  trust  himself  on  the 
topic  of  the  day;  nor  did  his  gentle  nature 
deal  in  any  phrases  of  indignation  or  despair. 
This  was  not  from  fear,  for  he  had  done  much 
to  compromise  himself  by  continued  inter- 
course with  friends  deeply  concerned  in  late 
events,  and  in  them  his  thoughts  were  now 
absorbed — in  the  fathers  of  families,  who  sat 
in  prison,  waiting,  unconvicted  and  untried,  to 
be  shipped  off  into  life-long  and  solitary  exile 
— the  enfants  de  familh,  those  young  men  of 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUR.  95 

good  bourgeois  houses  who,  stung  by  a  gen- 
erous frenzy,  had  rushed  into  a  struggle  they 
knew  to  be  vain,  and  now  lay.  with  other  mur- 
dered bodies  in  the  Cemetery  of  Montmartre. 
There,  as  he  told  me,  he  had  spent  the  last 
night  among  thirty  fresh  corpses  just  flung 
there,  and  not  yet  buried,  but  covered  up  to 
the  necks  with  earth.  Among  these  ghastly 
projecting  heads  he  had  wandered  for  hours, 
sometimes  having  to  kneel  on  the  breast  of 
one  corpse  to  look  into  the  face  of  another. 

When  my  friend  touched  on  these  danger- 
ous topics,  he  turned  from  the  company  and 
spoke  in  under-tones ;  for  even  here  there  might 
be  spies.  And  certainly  one  neat  Frenchman, 
of  small  size,  whose  name  I  did  not  know,  was 
hovering  by  the  whole  time  with  a  most  com- 
ical air  of  perking  curiosity,  dodging  behind 
us,  and  peeping  at  us  over  the  back  of  the  sofa, 
and  between  ourselves  and  the  chimney-piece. 
But  I  hope  no  harm  will  follow  to  the  dear, 
pure-hearted,  tender-souled  man,  who,  however, 
has  been  in  prison  two  or  three  times  already. 
The  listener  was,  perhaps,  a  fancy  Jesuit ;  this 
is  a  species  of  fungus  which  has  lately  grown 
up  very  rapidly  from  the  corrupt  soil,  a  spe- 
cious Ultramontanism  being  now  decidedly 
the  fashion. 


96  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

And  now  it  grew  time  to  depart,  but  not 
before  exchanging  a  word  or  two  more  with 
M.  le  Professeur,.  and  promising  him  and  my- 
self to  attend  his  next  lecture,  to  try  if  the 
presence  of  an  Anglaise  can  by  any  possible 
magnetism  inspire  him  with  a  due  appreci- 
ation of  Shakspeare.  Looking  anxiously  at 
Sibyl,  he  said,  when  first  he  saw  her  in  the 
audience,  he  was  frightened,  knowing  madame 
to  be  "  un  peu  moqueuse,"  but  that  her  "  air 
bienveillant "  restored  his  courage;  he  hoped 
Mdlle.  Beatrice  would  be  -equally  merciful. 
Certainly,  no  one  would  have  guessed  M.  La- 
mourette  to  be  thus  timid ;  but  human  nature 
is  a  problem. 

I  kept  my  promise  and  attended  the  lecture, 
which,  after  all  this  confidence  and  condolence, 
was  but  decent  feeling.  Judging  from  what  I 
already  knew  of  him,  I  expected  clearness,  vi- 
vacity, and  happy  delivery,  rather  than  depth ; 
but  I  liked  to  go,  because  I  liked  the  man,  and 
heard  general  praise  of  his  ability.  The  lec- 
ture was  held  in  the  large  hall  of  a  public  col- 
lege, three-fourths  of  which  were  filled  with 
young  students,  while  in  front,  just  under  the 
tribune,  was  a  space  railed  off  for  lady-hear- 
ers, where  sat  the  Jewries  files  whom  he  had 
described  as  "rangees  tout  en  face  de  lui,"  and 


M.  LE  PBOFESSEUR.  97 

across  whom  he  carefully  looked  "  vers  les 
plus  laids  des  etudiants." 

Gradually  the  room  filled,  yet  the  lecturer 
appeared  not;  he  was  called  for  repeatedly, 
but  French  impatience  showed  itself  at  first 
only  in  a  playful  form  ;  the  students  stamped 
in  polka  time,  and  cut  jokes.  Still  he  was  in- 
visible, and  at  last  the  audience  grew  turbu- 
lent and  called  fiercely  for  him.  Unhappy 
man,  he  was  close  within  hearing,  in  his  little 
den  behind  the  tribune,  agonizingly  scribbling 
the  last  words  of  his  discourse.  Symptoms  of 
a  row  appeared,  but  were  stopped  by  the  lec- 
turer's at  last  rushing  upon  the  platform,  in  a 
shy,  hurried  manner,  flushed  and  fluttered,  per- 
haps a  little  angry.  He  carried  three  large 
books,  and  heaps  of  paper  under  his  arm; 
these  he  dropped  on  the  desk,  bowed  uncom- 
fortably, hid  his  face  in  his  hands  for  an  in- 
stant, wiped  and  put  on  his  spectacles,  in  ex- 
change for  the  glass  which  he  sports  in  private 
life,  took  a  violent  gulp  at  the  indispensable 
eau  sucree,  uttered  a  faint  and  humble  "  Mes- 
sieurs," and  began. 

The  first  words  were  an  apology  for  being 

late,  with  a  pathetic  statement  of  the  number 

of  lectures  he  had  weekly  to  prepare,  and  a  sort 

of  proud-humility  appeal  to  their  candor  and 

G 


98  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

indulgence.  This  pacified  "  la  jeune  France," 
who  clapped  its  hands,  and  then  M.  Lamou- 
rette  went  into  his  subject. 

Before  the  end  of  the  first  sentence  all  ti- 
midity vanished ;  he  grew  fluent,  rapid,  joy- 
ous ;  if  ever  he  hesitated  for  a  word,  it  was  for 
the  best  word,  and  the  best  in  a  moment  was 
sure  to  come.  His  manner  was  as  easy  and 
eager  as  in  conversation  ;  his  hands,  which  by 
the  way  were  small,  white,  and  delicate,  darted 
about  everywhere,  were  clasped,  twirled  round, 
pointed  up  and  down;  and  his  face  worked 
with  the  same  electric  play,  till  he  came  to 
the  conclusion  of  some  vehement  passage,  and 
would  then  throw  himself  completely  back  in 
his  chair  and  smile  benevolently  up  at  the 
ceiling. 

As  for  the  matter,  it  was  well  enough.  Al- 
though upon  poetical  subjects,  to  my  mind  it 
was  neither  poetical  nor  philosophical,*  I  cer- 
tainly received  no  new  lights,  but  I  approved 
of  the  general  justness  of  his  opinions,  the 
clearness  with  which  they  were  expressed,  and 
the  pleasantries  with  which  they  were  season- 
ed. But  when  he  came  to  the  promised  sub- 
ject, the  test,  the  touch-stone,  Shakspeare,  why 
then  followed — just  what  I  expected — some 
minute    comparisons   with   Voltaire,  allowing 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUB.  99 

certain  little  points  of  superiority  in  the  En- 
glish dramatist,  of  which  the  most  important 
was  that  "  his  personages  never  addressed  the 
audience,  but  always  each  other!"  (though  in 
his  next  lecture  he  apologized  for  having  too 
much  "  sacrifie  Voltaire  a  l'autel  de  Shaks- 
peare");  some  patronizing  praise  of  the  En- 
glish poet's  imaginativeness;  and  some  stern 
justice  dealt  to  his  "  deTauts  de  gout"  — 
u  meme  vous  qui  adorez  Shakspeare,  vous  con- 
viendrez  qu'il  est  tres-sauvage,"  etc. 

While  I  listened,  I  sat  swelling  with  all  the 
true  English  pride  and  worship  of  the  divini- 
ty so  witlessly  profaned,  not  indeed  with  the 
ignorant  contempt,  the  stupid  sneers,  the  pe- 
dantic abuse  of  the  old  school,  which  one  could 
but  have  enjoyed,  but  with  the  intended  can- 
dor, the  little,  feeble,  condescending  praise^the 
finikin  objections,  the  meagre  analysis  of  a 
clever  man  of  the  present  day,  who  only  — 
didn't  know  what  he  was  talking  about !  I  re- 
volved answers,  I  rounded  periods,  and  point- 
ed arguments,  which  I  felt  only  too  certain 
would  fail  me  in  the  hour  of  need.  My  one 
consolation  was,  that  there  sat  listening  also  an 
Italian  gentleman  whom  I  knew,  and  who 
knew  Shakspeare  as  well  as  a  German  could, 
and  who  would,  I  also  knew,  when  we  came 


100  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

out,  join  me  in  criticism  of  the  lecturer,  and 
say,  as  indeed  he  did  with  .mild  scorn,  "  He 
does  not  understand  Shakspeare."  And  when 
reminded  that  M.  Lamourette  had  stated  that 
his  next  lecture  would  be  on  a  new  subject, 
answered  emphatically,  "  So  much  the  bet- 
ter." 

Let  me  do  M.  Lamourette  justice ;  he  took 
occasion  to  quote  a  well-known  passage  from 
an  English  writer  on  English  constitutional 
liberty,  and  he  did  it  with  a  clear  ringing  voice 
and  bold  emphasis,  which  pointed  its  applica- 
tion beyond  mistake.  But  again — what  hu- 
mor had  seized  him,  I  know  not — he  made  a 
quite  unnecessary  hit  at  the  poor  Anglais  in  the 
application  of  the  word  sorcier,  which  I  did  not 
quite  understand,  but  which  his  French  audi- 
ence did,  for  they  laughed  rapturously.  Then, 
looking  down  at  us,  he  added,  "  Je  demande 
pardon  a  tous  les  Anglais  presents,"  at  which 
his  English  audience  laughed  as  heartily,  to 
show  that  the  pardon  was«  given.  The  allu- 
sion was  afterwards  carefully  explained  to  me 
by  Hermine  (who,  I  think,  enjoyed  it)  as  refer- 
ring to  the  noted  ugliness  of  Englishmen — a 
fact  which  I  thought  required  confirmation, 
but  I  would  not  dispute  on  matters  of  taste, 
and  only  smiled  at  my  friend's  rancor  against 


M.  LE  PROFESSEUR.  101 

"les  Anglais"  —  "pas  les  Anglaises,"  as  he 
had  once,  with  a  deep  bow,  explained  to  me. 

In  the  course  of  the  lecture  a  dark  cloud 
came  over  the  lecturer's  brow;  he  hesitated, 
stopped,  fixed  a  jealous,  upbraiding  eye  on  a 
very  retired  corner  of  the  room,  then  went  on 
in  sharp,  exasperated  tones,  rasping  out  his 
words  with  superfluous  emphasis.  I  looked 
too,  and  with  difficulty  discovered  in  a  recess, 
quite  in  the  shade,  M.  Emile,  his  hat  drawn 
over  his  brows — I  could  not  see  his  face,  but 
the  professor  had,  or  had  divined  its  secret — 
he  was  asleep !  It  seems  some  official  duty  oc- 
casionally obliges  the  militaire  to  be  present  at 
his  friend's  lecture,  and  on  this  occasion,  feel- 
ing the  approach  of  a  natural  infirmity,  he 
tried  hard  to  screen  himself;  but  that  sensi- 
tive gentleman,  short-sighted  as  he  was,  had 
found  him  out.  What !  go  to  this  lecture  and 
— sleep  !  It  was  too  much !  Certainly  my 
friend  the  professor  is  a  most  thin-skinned  in- 
dividual, though  not,  I  fancy,  at  all  difficult  to 
manage  by  one  who  understands  him.  This  I 
begin  to  do,  having  discovered  the  ease  with 
which  he  is  mortified ;  his  vivid,  yet  artless 
jealousy  of  other  men ;  his  suspiciousness, 
which  causes  him  to  look  unhappy  if  a  word 
of  English  is  spoken  before  him,  and,  if  a  laugh 


102  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

or  smile  accompany  it,  to  inquire  anxiously, 
"Ai-je  dit  quelque  chose  de  ridicule?" 

So,  when  next  I  met  him  en  soiree,  I  deter- 
mined to  be  friendly  and  conciliating ;  and 
first  I  said  polite  things  as  to  the  interest  of 
his  lecture.  He  recurred  with  animation  to 
his  passage  from  Burke,  and  asked  what  I 
thought  of  the  translation. 

"  It  was  very  good,  monsieur,  and  you  gave 
it  with  great  spirit;  but  your  lectures  will  be 
suppressed  if  you  make  any  more  such  quota- 
tions." 

He  looked  intensely  pleased  at  this,  and 
said,  "Oh,  pour  cela,  that  must  be  as  it  may;  I 
have  no  fear,  moi ;"  and  he  went  on  triumph- 
antly, "In  my  opening  lecture  this  year,  I  took 
care  to  say  as  follows:  'On  the  subject  of 
politics,  messieurs,  you  have  already  heard  my 
opinions,  and  I  have  changed  none  of  them 
since  we  met  last.?  Well,  if  for  such  state- 
ments I  am  to  be  destitue  of  my  office,  I  can 
bear  it." 

I  honored  the  brave  little  man,  and  began 
quite  mildly  on  the  Shakspeare  subject.  In- 
deed, it  did  not  much  signify  what  line  I  took, 
for  M.  Lamourette  proved  himself  perfectly 
good-humored,  very  witty,  and  utterly  invin- 
cible.    Still,  it  was  trying  when  another  gen- 


M,  LE  PROFESSEUR.  103 

tleman  came  up  —  one  of  whose  intellect  I 
thought  highly,  and  who  generally  agreed 
with  me  most  respectfully  and  admiringly — 
and  who  now  tranquilly  put  forward  several 
of  the  worst  French  heresies  on  the  subject, 
which,  however,  were  the  more  pardonable  in 
him,  as  he  did  not  understand  one  word  of 
English. 

I  looked  helplessly  round  for  my  Italian 
litterateur.  How  gladly  would  I,  an  English- 
woman, have  put  the  cause  of  the  English  poet 
into  the  hands  of  an  Italian,  to  be  defended  in 
French !  But  he  was  not  there.  So  I  suc- 
cumbed by  changing  the  subject,  and  M.  La- 
mourette,  smiling,  paid  me  the  very  finest  of 
fine  compliments,  thereby  proving  that  he 
thought  me  utterly  vanquished. 


104  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

M.  EMILE. 

I  PERCEIVE  that  in  my  account  of  this 
last  soiree  I  have  not  mentioned  the  young 
militaire.  In  truth,  being  detained  by  profes- 
sional business,  he  came  late,  and  for  but  ten 
minutes ;  but  he  escorted  Sibyl  and  me  home. 
There  had  been  that  day  some  fine  govern- 
ment ceremonies,  in  which  of  course  the  sol- 
diers had  played  a  conspicuous  part.  I  asked 
M.  Simile  if  he  had  been  at  the  Tuileries,  where 
the  principal  show  took  place.  "No,"  he 
said,  with  a  dry  tone  of  disdain  ;  "  I  was 
obliged  to  be  on  duty  at  first  at  Notre-Dame, 
but  nothing  obliged  me  to  be  at  the  Tuileries." 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  contemptuous  in- 
difference shown  by  all  the  Frenchmen  I  have 
met  for  the  grand  fetes  and  reviews  with  which 
they  have  of  late  been  surfeited.  This,  no 
doubt,  is  to  be  expected  of  professing  Repub- 
licans or  Legitimists ;  but  even  in  the  streets 
and  among  the  common  crowds  I  have  seen 
little  curiosity.  It  seems  as  if  even  the  French 
mind  can  not  always  be  fed  through  the  eyes, 


M.  EMILE.  105 

that  there  are  wrongs  too  fresh  and  too  deep 
to  be  healed  with  showers  of  comfits,  that  the 
spectacle  forced  upon  them  by  a  bayonet's 
point  can  be  but  moderately  enjoyed,  and  that 
the  command  "  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  or  to- 
morrow you  die,"  is  not  one  to  stimulate  even 
a  Paris  populace  to  a  very  hearty  appetite. 

But  to  return  to  M.  Ernile.  Though  we 
miss  him  sometimes  at  the  soirees,  we  see  a 
good  deal  of  him  at  other  times,  as  in  the  char- 
acter of  Hermine's  cousin  he  has  free  entry  to 
us.  Having  discovered  Sibyl's  taste  for  harm- 
less amusement,  like  a  good  genius,  he  is  al- 
ways coming  with  some  agreeable  suggestion 
or  other.  Schemes  of  pleasure  always  follow 
his  appearance  ;  I  can  not  say  how  they  spring- 
up.  There  is  no  formal  arrangement,  but  his 
entrance,  his  presence,  seem  to  let  in  a  soft  sun- 
shine, in  which  bright  fancies  and  smiling 
schemes  bud  and  bloom  spontaneously,  every 
thing  organizing  itself  smoothly  and  complete- 
ly, as  by  light  touches  of  an  invisible  hand. 
In  no  way  does  French  inventiveness  show 
more  gracefully  than  in  these  delicate  adorn- 
ments of  daily  life. 

Little  as  I  yet  know  of  M.  fimilej  I  believe 
with  Sibyl  that  he  is  to  be  trusted,  and  I  look 
on  him  as  a  specimen  of  the  best  class  of  "la 


106  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

jeune  France  " — a  class  in  which  the  fine  quali- 
ties that  made  France's  former  greatness  still 
exist,  and  which,  if  its  manhood  be  but  true  to 
its  youth,  may  yet  regenerate  the  nation.  Of 
this  class  it  has  always  struck  me  that  young 
Bellot  (the  heroic  sailor  who  sought  for  Frank- 
lin's grave  and  found  his  own)  was  a  type,  per- 
haps exceptionally  perfect.  The  golden  trait 
is  a  generous,  a  chivalrous  enthusiasm  of  feel- 
ing, giving  to  temperament  and  tendencies  an 
almost  ideal  beauty. 

Such  an  one  does  Simile  de  Fleury  appear 
to  me ;  a  youth  of  a  country  family,  brought 
up  among  domestic  union  and  kindliness,  and 
then,  still  fresh  and  pure,  and  ardent  to  excel, 
transferred  to  Paris,  where  he  devotes  himself 
to  the  studies  of  his  profession,  firmly  confid- 
ing in  his  power  of  forcing  his  way  from  its 
lowly  beginnings  up  to  its  most  radiant  heights. 
As  frankly  as  he  imparts  all  this,  does  he  also 
display  the  more  child-like  parts  of  his  charac- 
ter, unchecked,  as  an  English  youth  might  be, 
by  a  dread  of  the  words  "  novice  "  or  "  egotist." 
He  speaks  of  his  home  in  the  South,  of  family 
meetings,  of  moonlight  rambles  in  the  forests 
around  his  native  place,  prolonged  amidst 
songs  and  tinkling  of  guitars ;  he  talks  even 
of  the  little  brothers  and  sisters,  or  of  the  elder 


M.  EM1LE.  107 

sister  who,  young  and  beautiful,  chose  to  be- 
come a  nun,  and  whom,  when  she  sickens  and 
grows  feeble  under  too  zealous  austerities,  he 
visits  daily  in  her  Paris  convent  with  an  un- 
failing gift  of  flowers.  In  deeper  tones  he 
confides  to  you  all  about  his  mother — how  she 
was  made  up  of  a  "bon  sens  exquis  et  d'une 
angelique  douceur."  How  perfect  a  womanly 
picture  do  these  two  combined  traits  suggest ! 

As  for  his  religion,  he  is  a  liberal  Catholic, 
with  more  of  devout  feeling  than  of  formular- 
ized  creed.  "  As  far  as  doctrines  go,"  he  says, 
"  I  could  make  you  in  half  an  hour  as  good  a 
Catholic  as  I  am."  Yet,  then  recalling  the 
f£tes  of  his  childhood,  the  walks  to  church  by 
his  mother's  side,  the  music  and  flowers,  and 
her  tender  prayers,  he  would  avow  himself 
"Catholique  depuis  les  racines  des  cheveux 
jusqu'aux  plantes  des  pieds."  Equally  does 
he  glow  in  speaking  of  episodes  in  his  youth 
of  wild  and  stern  life,  long  months  spent  in 
solitude,  perhaps  in  hardship,  among  mount- 
ains, but  glorified  by  the  hope  of  distinction, 
and  softened  by  the  delight  of  natural  beauty, 
on  which  he  will  dwell  with  touches  of  the 
poet.  He  loves  alike  the  sapins  on  the  mount- 
ain, the  bleuets  in  the  corn-field,  the  balmy  roses 
of  a  garden-bower,  with  a  love  which  makes 


108  TWENTY  YEABS  AGO. 

him  sometimes  impatient  of  a  life  shackled  by 
rigid  official  duties.  Stung,  too,  by  the  strug- 
gling contradiction  between  an  ambition  to  rise 
in  his  profession  and  aversion  to  a  connection 
with  despotic  government,  the  young  brow 
will  furrow,  and  the  words  escape  in  a  sharp 
sigh,  "Oh,  mon  independance !  qui  me  la 
rendra?"  A  minute  afterwards  (these  French 
are  such  strange  beings)  a  perverse  fit  may 
seize  him,  and  with  a  kind  of  pleasant  sour- 
ness he  will  debiter  much  gloomy  misanthro- 
py and  cynicism ;  he  will  denigrer  all  these 
charms,  rail  at  romance,  and  try  obstinately  to 
seem  blase  and  insensible  —  nay,  will  almost 
persuade  you  to  believe  him,  so  prettily  does 
he  act  it. 

Indeed,  some  temporary  gloom  may  well  be 
excused  to  a  young  man,  mature  in  thought 
beyond  his  years,  under  his  present  circum- 
stances. Just  wakened  to  real  life  from  those 
shining  visions  and  aspirations,  at  a  period  of 
peculiar  darkness  and  discouragement  to  all 
good  patriots  —  at  the  moment,  too,  of  expe- 
riencing life's  first  and  worst  loss,  a  dearly 
loved  mother's  death — it  is  no  wonder  if  he 
sometimes  fancies  himself  disenchanted  for  life. 
But,  no!  that  fine  organization  and  fervid  na- 
ture have  heart  and  hope  in  them  yet;  though 


31.  EMILE.  109 

whether  they  will  survive  when  youth's  fair 
illusions  are  really  gone,  amidst  the  azote  of 
that  social  and  political  atmosphere,  may  be 
sorrowfully  doubted.  From  instances  that  I 
have  seen,  I  could  paint  him  as  he  may  be  a 
dozen  years  hence,  when  the  work  of  desillu- 
sionnement  is  complete.  He  is  already  con- 
scious that  he  is  not  what  he  was,  and  can 
philosophize,  half  coldly,  half  lightly,  on  the 
change,  although  the  fine  natural  qualities 
shed  even  yet  a  kind  of  half-painful  lustre 
over  the  ruins.  He  feels  a  secret  contempt  for 
others,  fostering  in  him  a  cynical  pride  not 
founded  on  any  real  self-esteem  ;  the  generous 
trust,  the  enthusiastic  self-devotion,  are  no 
more;  he  may  continue  benevolent  in  action, 
but  has  ceased.to  be  kindly  in  thought.  With 
probity  and  independence  at  the  core,  he  be- 
comes subtle  and  tortuous  in  his  social  rela- 
tions, his  feelings  run  no  longer  straight  on- 
ward in  the  daylight.  He  takes  a  sombre 
pleasure  in  defying  scrutiny,  misleading  friend- 
ly conjecture,  disappointing  nascent  confidence, 
and  leaving  an  impression  of  something  much 
bitterer  and  harder  than  he  really  is. 

Yet  even  from  such  a  fall  I  believe  he  might 
recover;  should  some  great  cause  call  aloud 
for  heroic  self-sacrifice,  all   his   best   nature 


110  TWENTY  YE AltS  AGO. 

would  spring  up,  crying  in  answer  to  that 
trumpet- voice,  "  Here  I  am — send  me."  But 
if,  instead  of  that  stirring  anguish  and  passion 
and  strife,  this  deadly  torpor  of  a  debasing  tyr- 
anny should  deepen  and  strengthen  over  the 
nation,  till  its  best  hearts  and  brains  yield  to 
the  hopeless  spell — ah,  what  will  he  then  be  ? 

Gladly  do  I  return  from  such  a  fancy  pic- 
ture to  the  reality  of  the  young,  generous, 
amiable  Emile  as  he  is.  At  present,  whatever 
mask  he  may  choose  to  wear  is  but  a  transpar- 
ent one,  and  we  two — Sibyl  especially — know 
always  how  in  a  moment  to  make  it  drop  com- 
pletely off.  We  have  fortunately  taught  him, 
too,  that  Englishwomen  can  bear — nay,  can 
welcome  —  truth,  even  when  it  is  not  sweet  as 
flattery ;  and  he  takes  pleasure  in  speaking  it 
to  us.  He  will  kindly  warn  me  of  social  blun- 
ders; and  when  either  of  us — I  through  want 
of  readiness,  or  Sibyl  from  her  careless  dislike 
to  trouble — make  slips  in  French,  in  accent,  in 
idionr,  or  grammar,  such  as  cause  some  cheer- 
ful misunderstanding,  or  some  engaging  or  per- 
haps embarrassing  mistake,  M.  fimile  will  laugh 
at  us  freely,  with  fearless  smile,  and  saucy, 
sparkling  eye.  "I  could  make  a  dictionary 
of  the  words  you  invent,  mademoiselle,"  he 
once  said. 


M.  EMILR  111 

And  when,  on  his  granting  that  the  particu- 
lar word  I  had  coined  was  wanted,  I  said,  "  Je 
vous  en  fais  cadeau,"  he  answered,  "I  thank 
you;  I  shall  value  it  so  highly  that  I  shall 
take  care  never  to  use  it." 

But  when  invited  to  make  mistakes  in  re- 
turn, he  is  far  too  fin  to  give  us  this  advantage, 
pleading  total  ignorance  of  English,  even  to  its 
alphabet. 

This  fondness  of  the  Frenchman  for  support- 
ing a  role  in  social  intercourse  is  very  marked. 
If  he  is  brave,  honorable,  enthusiastic,  he  en- 
joys his  own  fine  qualities  as  much  as  any  one 
can ;  without  broadly  making  himself  a  person- 
nage  de  romwn,  he  yet  lets  you  conceive  that 
impression  of  him,  and  takes  care  to  suppress 
any  thing  that  may  disturb  it.  Yet  even  these 
little  artifices  are  part  of  the  real  naturalness, 
and  please  me  accordingly.  For,  in  spite  of 
his  instinct  (rather  than  habit)  of  accommo- 
dating himself  to  his  companion,  so  impres- 
sionable, so  eagerly  unreserved  is  he,  that  truth 
will  often  come  out  brusquely,  or,  as  he  him- 
self says,  "  brutalement." 

And  then,  too,  the  French  dearly  like  ex- 
citement in  conversation — it  is  a  game  which 
they  play  with  all  their  hearts — so  that  contra- 
diction, raillery,  even  a  little  anger,  will  come 


112  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

to  add  zest,  and  entertain  the  stranger  who  is 
on  the  look-out  for  national  or  individual  traits. 
It  is  true,  one  does  not  always  keep  cool  one's 
self — one  grows  eager,  emphatic,  words  come 
with  an  ardent  yet  hesitating  eloquence,  the 
heart  beats,  the  cheeks  glow,  and  one  becomes 
frank  and  brusque  too — and  then,  a  pleased 
laugh,  a  quietly -bantering  comment,  or  a  bit  of 
delicate  criticism,  tells  one  that  the  Frenchman, 
in  his  turn,  is  making  his  reflections  and  com- 
posing his  theory. 

There  is  a  piquancy  in  this  intercourse  like 
that  of  two  hostile  armies  who,  during  some 
brief  armistice,  enter  each  other's  camps,  min- 
gle gayly,  and  make  friendship  even  out  of 
the  grim  warfare  which  has  brought  them  thus 
together. 

In  the  course  of  my  acquaintance  with  M. 
Lamourette,  he  published  a  volume  of  mem- 
oirs, on  which  I  knew  him  to  have  expended 
a  good  deal  of  thought  and  research,  and 
which,  of  course,  I  sometimes  made  the  theme 
of  my  conversation  with  him.  With  a  delight- 
ful simplicity  he  assured  me  that  he  was  per- 
fectly indifferent  to  its  success.  "  Praise,"  he 
said,  "  only  vexes  me,  and  I  would  rather  the 
work  was  not  noticed  at  all.  When  it  was 
read  aloud  in  the  Academie,  and  a  vote  of  ap- 


M.  EMILE.  113 

proval  passed  upon  it,  I  could  hardly  persuade 
myself  to  open  the  report  that  announced  it  to 
me.  Maintenant,  quant  a  ce  livre,  je  n'y  pense 
jamais." 

I  took  all  this  gravely  and  respectfully.  I 
knew  the  professor  was  a  blighted,  jaded,  sa- 
tiated being;  in  England,  perhaps,  we  might 
have  hinted  that  he  was  an  enfante  gate;  but  I 
chose  to  take  him  as  he  represented  himself. 
When,  a  day  or  two  after,  he  came  to  us  en 
soiree,  his  book  was  lying  on  a  little  table,  and 
I  saw  his  quick  eye  drawn  and  fixed  as  by 
magnetism  on  it. 

"What  a  pity,"  I  said,  "that  you  were  not 
here  sooner !  A  literary  gentleman,  interested 
in  the  subject  you  wrote  of,  has  been  here," 
and  I  named  the  gentleman,  who  was  a  writer 
of  repute.  "  He  saw  the  .book,  and  asked  ques- 
tions about  it;  and  I  dare  say  would  have 
liked  to  talk  to  you  on  the  subject." 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  for  some 
days  after,  my  friend  could  not  get  that  gentle- 
man out  of  his  head.  I  mentioned  a  slight 
critical  remark  that  had  been  made  on  the 
work,  and  I  saw  him  from  time  to  time  ap- 
proach and  take  up  the  book,  ask  what  "ce 
monsieur  "  had  said,  and  recur  to  the  subject, 
while  I  smiled  internally  with  tender  pleasure 
H 


114  TWENTY  YEABS  AGO. 

at  his  innocent  inconsistency.  For  indeed,  my 
dear  professor,  you  are  really  very  thin-skin- 
ned, and  the  mask  of  indifference  does  not  sit 
well  on  you.  You  are  like  a  child  —  while 
pleased,  while  amused,  and  to  a  certain  extent 
flattered,  no  one  can  be  more  gay,  good-hu- 
mored, and  engaging  than  you  are ;  but  let  the 
required  sweet  aliment  be  withdrawn,  or  the  im- 
mediate prospect  of  gratification  be  in  another 
direction,  or  greater  amusement  to  be  found 
elsewhere,  and  you  can,  I  suspect,  become  ill- 
mannered,  even  ill-bred,  to  a  degree  the  com- 
posed Englishman  could  not  be  guilty  of. 

These  charming  French  are  mostly  egotists 
— the  word  must  be  used,  but  it  is  no  very 
branding  one — and  they  would  not  be  quite  so 
charming  if  they  were  not.  For  in  the  good 
natures  this  egotism  flatters  the  egotism  of 
others  by  an  intelligent  sympathy  and  a  quick 
sensibility  to  all  the  small  details  of  feeling. 
It  gives  the  power  of  studying  the  souls  of 
others  alike  with  fellow  •  feeling  and  the  feel- 
ings of  an  artist. 

Certainly  they  are  superlative  conversers.  I 
know  not  how  to  describe  it;  I  can  only  re- 
call having  been  held  hour  by  hour,  uncon- 
scious whether  I  talked  or  not,  scarcely  won- 
dering at  the  ease  with  which   all  kinds   of 


M.  EMILE.  115 

material  were  melted  together  in  the  stream  of 
that  multifarious  talk,  aware  only  of  a  sharp, 
crisp,  piquant  scent  and  flavor  of  delightful 
novelty.  Never  had  I  been  so  unreserved  or 
heard  such  unreserved  utterance  before — all 
was  new,  yet  all  seemed  quite  natural,  and  suit- 
ed to  the  long-felt  wants  and  vague  concep- 
tions of  one's  own  mind.  It  was  a  web  of  feel- 
ing and  reasoning,  just  light  enough  for  con- 
versation, across  which  anecdotes  or  illustra- 
tions were  darted  like  sparkles  and  jets  of 
light;  or,  still  more  interesting,  a  flow  of  rec- 
ollections out  of  a  varied  life,  stories  tragic 
and  comic,  bits  of  deeply-felt  autobiography, 
with  touches  of  thought — melancholy,  sarcas- 
tic, or  philosophic — and  many  an  interruption 
of  ingenious  turn  or  piquant  reply.  Wherever 
he  wills,  the  Frenchman  leads  you ;  no  path  so 
deep  and  sinuous,  no  wood-shade  so  wild  and 
dim,  but  you  follow  undoubtingly.  In  the  met- 
aphysics of  the  heart  no  one  surpasses  him; 
no  such  philosophic  sentimentalist,  no  such 
soul-analyzer  and  connoisseur  of  the  passions 
as  he.  And  into  the  trying,  tempting  maze  he 
draws  you  unawares,  luring  you  on  with  ever 
and  anon  some  glancing  sun-streak  of  allusion 
to  his  own  experience.  I  often  have  read  (in 
novels  especially)  of  this  kind  of  conversation, 


116  TWENTY  TEAMS  AGO. 

but  never  realized  it  till  I  heard  it  from  a  clev- 
er and  sympathetic  Frenchman.  I  know  not 
how  much  art  there  was  in  all  this — if  art  it 
was,  it  was  perfect  as  nature. 

Of.  course,  with  all  this  charm,  there  were 
certain  things,  which  had  a  great  tendency  to 
provoke  the  Britannic  mind,  or,  if  it  were  in  a 
proper  state,  to  amuse  it.  They  arose  mostly 
from  the  all  but  impossibility  to  the  French 
mind  of  understanding  foreign  nations  and 
foreign  languages,  or  looking  at  any  thing 
from  other  than  a  French  point  of  view. 
That  French  ignorance  on  English  subjects 
continued  to  me  a  daily  source  of  astonish- 
ment, just  as  it  was  in  the  first  bloom  and 
dawn  of  my  perception  thereof.  It  might  be 
mortifying,  were  it  not,  as  I  believe,  just  as 
crasse  on  every  foreign  subject.  It  may  be 
our  English  mistakes  on  things. French  are 
equally  stupendous  to  their  eyes ;  still  I  think 
we,  at  any  rate,  know  a  little  better  what 
views  they  hold  on  subjects  differently  related 
by  the  two  nations,  and  so  escape  that  naivete 
of  ignorance  which  they  display. 

There  are  topics  which,  for  the  sake  of  one's 
serenity  of  mind,  it  is  good  to  avoid.  What 
were  my  feelings  when  the  candid,  intelligent, 
well-informed  M.  fimile  made  the  (as  I  after- 


M.  EMILE.  117 

wards  found)  common  assertion  that  the  En- 
glish were  beaten  at  Waterloo !  When,  with  a 
vehemence  which  almost  prevented  any  satis- 
factory reasoning  on  the  subject,  I  combated 
this  stupefying  statement,  nothing  could  ex- 
ceed the  mild  condescension  of  the  smile  and 
tone  with  which  I  was  kindly  informed  that 
"it  was  permitted  to  a  demoiselle  to  be  not 
very  au  fait  upon  military  matters." 

Why  is  it  that  all  technicalities  and  facts 
fail  one  just  at  such  times?  and  why  does  the 
French  language,  in  which  a  hundred  times  be- 
fore one  has  been  pert  and  pugnacious  enough, 
fail  as  well  ?  But  let  it  pass ;  we  have  no  bus- 
iness to  boast  of  Waterloo,  no  more  right  to  be 
proud  of  it  than  the  French  of  a  gallantly -sus- 
tained defeat.  It  was  a  miserable  thing  that  it 
had  to  be  fought  at  all,  and  if  it  still  stands  as 
a  barrier  against  the  perfect  friendship  of  two 
brave  nations,  I  could  rather  be  sorry  for  it. 

Another  time,  iWle  insisted  that  England 
had  made  a  good  thing  of  the  war  with  Na- 
poleon, her  whole  object  in  it  having,  indeed, 
been  to  increase  her  possessions;  and  when 
humbly  entreated  to  say  what  possessions  she 
had  gained  by  it,  he  promptly  answered,  "Ja- 
maica." When,  however,  with  vehemence  be- 
yond strict  courtesy,  we  complained  of  these 


118  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

"  queer  French  notions,"  most  disarming  was 
the  candid  reply,  "  C'est  trop  vrai ;  we  are  but 
moderately  informed  about  other  nations,  and 
England  is,  perhaps,  not  the  one  which  we  un- 
derstand best." 

But  enough  of  these  irritating  and  foolish 
topics,  which  had  better  never  arise  between 
French  and  English,  each  of  whom,  of  course, 
can  but  look  on  that  side  of  the  shield  whose 
glittering  metal  is  next  to  their  eyes.  The 
habit  of  reading  in  history  only  what  tells  best 
for  our  national  pride  will  never  be  conquered 
while  national  feeling  has  a  root  in  our  hearts; 
but  I  hold  that  with  strangers  the  modest  or 
well-bred  man  will  no  more  vaunt  his  country 
than  he  will  his  family  or  himself. 

Still,  leaving  party  questions  aside,  it  is  curi- 
ous how  shamefully,  how  grotesquely  inaccu- 
rate they  often  are  in  their  statement  of  facts, 
even  when  there  is  no  object  to  be  gained  by 
it,  and  when  one  would  have  thought  it  much 
easier  to  be  accurate.  In  history  or  biography 
their  preference  of  fancy  to  fact,  their  disregard 
of  dates,  their  disfigurements  of  names  and  ti- 
tles— here  Michelet,  Lamartine,  Sainte-Beuve, 
rise  up  before  me  as  first-class  offenders — is 
something  past  speaking  of.  These  mistakes 
do  not  come  from  want  of  imagination ;  there 


M.  EMILE.  119 

is  but  too  much  of  that  quality  in  the  rapidity 
with  which  half-impressions  are  seized  on  and 
worked  up ;  they  are  run  away  with  by  a  the- 
ory, and  generalize  to  a  wonderful  extent;  and 
then  their  national  conceit  satisfies  them  that 
they  are  quite  right,  and  seeks  no  more  infor- 
mation to  correct  first  ideas.  Nor  with  them 
is  it,  as  with  the  Irish,  produced  by  confusion 
of  head ;  they  are  quick  and  exact,  logiques  in 
their  mode  of  reasoning,  pellucidly  clear — nay, 
mathematically  precise — in  their  forms  of  ex- 
pression; there  are  no  muddled  half-concep- 
tions in  the  fire  and  crystal  of  the  French 
brain.  Nor  is  it  from  any  incapacity  for  pa- 
tient, continued  application ;  this  can  be  most 
eminently  exercised  when  results  can  be  ob- 
tained no  other  way. 

Is  it  then  symptomatic  of  the  often  imputed 
French  insincerity?  and  is  that  charge  a  just 
one  ?  I  can  not  yet  say.  I  suppose  while  hu- 
man nature  is  human  nature,  the  masses  as 
well  as  individuals  will  find  some  object  for 
whose  sake  they  think  it  worth  while  to  sacri- 
fice truth,  or,  as  I  have  heard  it  philosophical- 
ly defined,  "  to  postpone  the  recognition  of  the 
fact  to  the  exigencies  of  the  moment;"  and 
to  the  vain,  sensitive  French  nature  "effect" 
seems  that  powerful  temptation.     This  tend- 


130  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ency  glares  on  us  from  the  proclamations  on 
their  walls,  from  the  language  of  the  Senate, 
the  Bar,  the  Academy,  and  the  Pulpit,  from 
the  pages  of  their  public  journals  and  their 
most  "standard"  histories.  To  produce  an 
" effect"  they  will  employ  false  coloring,  will 
suppress  and  add,  and,  if  that  effect  be  a  clap- 
trap grand  sentiment  or  a  piece  of  showy  patri- 
otism, will  confess  to  it  even  with  pride.  Many 
a  piquant  instance  of  this  is  full  and  fresh  in 
my  memory  at  this  moment,  but  I  will  not  en- 
large farther  on  a  fact  generally  acknowledged. 
But,  as  to  personal  and  social  insincerity,  I 
think  we  are  apt  to  be  unjust  to  the  French, 
from  not  understanding  their  manners  as  well 
as  they  do  themselves.  They  are  not  neces- 
sarily untruthful  in  their  expressions  of  liking 
or  interest,  only  we  must  not  expect  the  feeling 
to  last.  Every  moment  is  with  them  taken  up* 
with  vivid  interests  —  in  succession  ;  for  they 
are  too  strong  to  be  simultaneous.  There  is 
not  room  for  all  at  once,  and,  as  they  say 
themselves,  "  la  vie  de  Paris  est  devorante." 
The  amiable  French  manner  is  also  mislead- 
ing ;  because  that  is  universal,  and  because 
generous,  unselfish  goodness  is  not  universal 
with  them  any  more  than  in  England,  we 
hastily  conclude  that  fine  show,  as  we  call  it, 
to  be  always  pretense. 


M.  EMILE.  121 

Still,  were  one  to  judge  from  certain  small 
traits,  one.  would  conclude  that  the  French 
standard  of  honor  was  not  quite  so  high  as  our 
own.  "Petits  mensonges,"  or  "white  lies," 
are  things  they  are  not  a  bit  ashamed  of; 
"mensonge"  is  not  the  least  an  impolite  an- 
swer to  even  a"  lady's  assertion;  listening  at  a 
door,  and  panegyrizing  one's  own  book  in  a 
public  journal,  are  proceedings  I  have  heard 
avowed  by  a  most  estimable  gentleman ;  and 
conventional  politeness  is  carried  so  far  that 
it  scarcely  deceives.  What  with  us  is  mere 
honesty,  is  with  them  brutalite,  for  which  one 
gains  no  sort  of  credit. 

I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  apologize  for  the  de- 
cisive tone  and  rapid  generalization  exhibited 
in  this  critique  on  a  nation  whom  I  know,  after 
all,  but  in  glimpses.  As  a  stranger  and  for- 
eigner, I  dwelt  chiefly  in  the  outworks  of 
French  society.  But  then  they  are  a  people 
whose  life  is  so  much  external  that  the  stran- 
ger may  see  and  learn  much  without  going 
farther  than  those  outworks.  And  if  I  can 
not  myself  pronounce  a  judgment,  I  am  at 
least  very  qualified  to  report  their  own  ;  for 
hardly  a  day  passed  that  some  French  man  or 
woman  did  not  treat  me  to  an  opinion  or  as- 
sertion about  themselves. 


122  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   JOUR  DE   L7AN". 

WELL,  the  elections  are  finished.  Those 
of  Paris  were  over  in  one  day  ;  those  of 
the  country  took  five  or  six  days.  The  result 
is  of  course  the  same  in  both,  and  Louis  Napo- 
leon is  confirmed  by  more  than  seven  millions 
against  about  six  hundred  thousand.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  quiet  with  which  it  all  took 
place ;  no  one  could  guess  that  the  votes  of 
a  nation  were  being  given.  The  abstentions 
were  so  numerous,  that,  had  they  been  added 
to  the  nous,  the  outs  would  have  been  out- 
voted. 

So  France  has  secured  her  ten  years7  dicta- 
tor ;  and  all  joy  to  her  on  her  choice.  The 
news  has  been  received  with  a  kind  of  sulky 
indifference  ;  no  guns  firing,  no  illuminations ; 
and  meanwhile  arrests  continue,  societies  are 
suppressed,  espionnage  is  diligently  practiced, 
military  law  of  the  severest  kind  reigns  in  the 
provinces,  and  Paris  sets  to  her  task  of  usher- 
ing gayly  in  the  new  year  with  what  skill  she 
may. 


THE  JOUR  BE  L'AK  123 

The  Boulevards,  as  usual,  are  turned  into  a 
fair,  with  a  succession  of  stalls  full  of  articles 
for  etrennes  ;  but  there  are  great  fears  about 
their  sale,  the  money-market  is  in  so  anxious  a 
state.  Terrible  scenes,  Sibyl  tells  me,  are  wont 
to  be  exhibited  on  the  Boulevards  at  this  time, 
children  wanting  all  the  splendid  things  with- 
out exception  that  they  see  there  —  crying 
loudly  for  them — rolling  on  the  ground. 

But  there  is  to  be  a  greater  show  on  New- 
year's-day,  for  the  president  is  then  to  be  pro- 
claimed, not  for  ten  years,  but  for  life,  at  No- 
tre-Dame,  with  great  pomp,  but,  as  is  expected, 
not  too  great  enthusiasm.  Meanwhile,  I  am 
making  trial  of  Paris  in  winter;  and  as  for 
four-fifths  of  the  year  she  deserves  to  be  paint- 
ed en  beau  in  colors  of  gold  and  azure,  we  may 
pardon  her  uncommon  disagreeableness  for  this 
fifth.  Certainly  she  is  very  dreary  when  giv- 
en up  to  incessant  rain,  and  when  our  sources 
of  amusement  are  restricted  to  what  we  can 
see  from  the  windows  of  her  at  her  dingiest — 
sloppy  pavements  and  streaming  spouts,  a  few 
busy  women  lifting  their  dresses  in  the  uncom- 
promising manner  of  all  true  Parisiennes  in 
rain  and  dirt,  a  few  soldiers  in  gray  cloaks,  all 
the  scanty  world  under  umbrellas,  and  gloom 
and  dreariness  everywhere. 


124  TWENTY  YEAliS  AGO. 

If,  weary  of  in-doors,  we  steal  out  at  some 
tolerable  interval,  the  result  is  not  enjoyment. 
The  streets  are  now  a  bed  of  thick  rich  mud, 
and  there  is  little  to  choose  between  the 
greasy,  slippery  trottoir  and  the  pave,  with 
pools  formed  round  every  stone.  The  cross- 
ings are  almost  impassable,  the  water  from 
spouts  and  projections  drips  on  one  as  one 
creeps  along  the  narrow  bit  of  trottoir  close  to 
the  wall,  shrinking  from  the  carts  and  omni- 
buses, whose  huge  wheels  almost  touch  the 
windows,  as  they  plough  through  and  splash 
up  the  mud.  The  Place  de  la  Concorde,  with 
its  extent  of  swimming  asphalt,  is  a  lake  of 
mire ;  the  Seine  runs  turbid,  thick,  and  dull 
green  under  its  now  misty  bridges,  in  fine 
weather  so  glitteringly  aerial;  the  public  build- 
ings look  grim  and  desponding,  and  seem  to 
wear  mourning.  Ah,  fair  Paris !  how  like  you 
are  —  in  these  two  phases — to  some  beau- 
ty first  seen  in  her  fete-days,  all  smiling  and 
charming,  made  up  of  graces  and  good-humor, 
and  the  same  beauty  gearing  a  shabb}7  dress- 
ing-gown and  a  sulky  face,  in  a  disorderly  bed- 
room at  home ! 

Paris  is  rather  less  intolerable  when  the 
weather  is  only  windy  and  cold.  Sibyl  and  I 
then  persist  in  our  English  habit  of  walking 


THE  JOUR  DE  VAN.  125 

forth  in  the  Champs  Elysees — not  merely  in 
the  dress  -  promenades  of  the  afternoon,  but  in 
the  early  morning,  when  one  meets  few  but 
some  determined  men,  who,  cloaked,  furred, 
and  hooded  up,  with  all  the  careful  and  gro- 
tesque contrivances  of  the  Parisian  winter  toi- 
let, glare  on  us  with  double  energy  from  their 
forests  of  beard  and  hair. 

There  goes  a  hat  blown  suddenly  from  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  into  the  river ;  the  young 
owner  laughs  a  little  ruefully  as  it  disappears, 
and  passes  on  his  way  bare-headed  with  a 
merry-faced  grisette.  There  goes  another !  the 
sleety  wind,  blowing  sharp  as  a  thousand  nee- 
dles across  the  Place,  has  driven  it  far  on,  but 
it  is  picked  up  and  restored,  and  the  picker-up, 
as  he  passes  on,  observes  to  us,  confidingly,  in 
a  discontented  tone,  "  II  a  bien  peu  me  dire 
merci."  See !  there  is  an  old  woman  timidly 
descending  some  steps  from  one  of  the  Tuile- 
ries  terraces ;  a  young  man  in  a  blouse  walking 
some  way  behind  runs  on,  gives  her  his  hand, 
helps  her  carefully  down,  and  leaves  her  with 
a  bow. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  winter's  day 
(New -year's -day,  1852)  when  I  went  to  wit- 
ness the  inauguration  of  the  Saviour  of  Socie- 
ty (now  self-named  for  life)  in  a  mixed  relig- 


126  TWENTY  YEAMti  AGO. 

ious  and  political  service  at  Notre-Dame.  I 
went  with  one  companion,  the  best  I  could 
have  wished  for,  and  one  whose  feelings  on 
the  subject  of  the  great  show  were,  I  knew, 
the  same  as  mine.  We  went  out  with  some 
degree  of  excitement  as  to  what  we  should 
see :  it  was  a  remarkable  day,  at  any  rate ;  it 
might  be  made  one  not  to  be  forgotten  by 
some  pistol-shot  which  should  point  the  moral 
of  the  pageant,  and  settle  accounts  with  the 
chief  actor  —  a  thing  which  some  at  least 
thought  not  impossible. 

It  was  a  day  of  thickest  fog ;  there  was,  too, 
a  damp,  poisonous,  cruel  chill;  the  mist  was  in- 
cessantly drizzling,  and  condensing  to  ice-drops 
upon  us ;  the  wind  cut  like  a  sword-edge,  and 
my  hands  were  stung  with  intolerable  cold. 
At  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  the  fountains 
were  frozen ;  the  naiads,  covered  with  icicles, 
were  shivering  in  their  winter  bath ;  the  wood 
walks  around  the  Tuileries  were  a  mystery  ; 
the  only  things  distinctly  seen  being  the  troops 
crossing  our  path,  dragoons,  chasseurs,  and  the 
line.  When  the  mist  cleared  a  little,  the  trees 
appeared  completely  clad  in  a  foliage  of  white 
frost-work,  full  and  graceful  as  their  former 
mantle  of  green ;  all  down  the  avenue  they 
exhibited  this  snowy  fancy  garniture.     As  we 


THE  JOUR  BE  L'AN.  127 

passed  the  Suspension  Bridge,  we  saw  between 
its  planks  the  dull,  deep,  smooth  green  of  the 
river,  and  pieces  of  ice  came  drifting  down  the 
still  stream.  The  poplars  and  willows  along 
the  river-side  were  in  stiff  white  spikes,  or 
hung  with  white  beads,  the  boughs  looking 
like  so  many  silver  strings,  while  the  iron  and 
bronze  gates  and  railings  were  all  powdered 
with  pearls. 

When  we  entered  the  tie  by  the  Petit  Pont, 
we  found  the  entrance  to  the  Place  de  Notre- 
Dame  choked  up  with  a  crowd  of  commis, 
blouses,  gamins,  so  that  we- could  not  even  get 
a  sight  of  the  soldiers  filling  the  Place.  But 
my  friend,  with  calm  reliance  on  the  chivalry 
of  French  soldiers,  assured  me  that  if  we  could 
squeeze  near  enough  to  be  seen  by  them  we 
should  be  sure  to  be  let  into  the  square.  And 
so  it  happened ;  and  on  the  perron  of  the  Hotel 
Dieu,  opposite  the  west  front  of  Notre-Dame, 
we  stood  and  commanded  the  whole  scene. 

The  mist  was  still  so  intense  that  the  three 
splendid  portals  opposite  us,  the  great  rose- 
window,  and  the  round-arched  galleries,  stood 
out  as  if  from  a  gray  blank.  The  Place  was 
full  of  soldiers  only,  every  inlet  carefully 
guarded*  A  bustle  of  preparation  began ; 
now  and  then  the  people  carelessly  cried,  "II 


128  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

vient!"  and  criticisms,  sometimes  disparaging, 
were  exchanged  on  the  "  filu  du  Ciel." 

At  length  the  great  bells  of  Notre-Dame  'be- 
gan to  ring,  and  then  came  a  clash  of  military 
music,  but  the  loud  tolling  sound  swelled  over 
trumpets  and  drums.  Then  there  rushed  upon 
the  scene  a  splendid  troop  of  lancers,  suddenly 
springing  out  of  the  mist,  all  borne  forward  at 
one  proud  bound,  like  so  many  strong  waves 
heaving  one  after  another.  On  they  came, 
three  or  four  abreast,  their  lances  held  up  tall 
and  straight,  the  flags  quivering  with  one 
slight  thrill  together — then  seemed  to  vanish 
again.  In  reality  they  wheeled  round  to  the 
other  side  of  the  Place.  Then  arms  were  pre- 
sented, the  dragoons  raised  their  long,  terrible 
broadswords — and  then,  almost  invisible,  came 
the  president's  carriage,  closely  invested  by  a 
double  ring  of  lancers,  "joliment  escorte,"  as 
4he  people  said — safe  enough  from  any  possi- 
bility of  a  shot. 

So  came  the  hero  of  the  scene;  he  was 
dressed  in  a  general's  uniform,  and  bowed  his 
cocked  hat,  not  out  of,  but  inside,  the  closed 
windows.  It  was  well  that  the  drums  beat 
their  loudest  to  drown  the  vivats  that  should 
have  been  uttered,  but  were  not.  The  front 
rank  of  soldiers  only  shouted,  and  that  with  no 


THE  JOUR  DE  VAN.  139 

accordant  faces.  Six  civilian  hats  were  taken 
off  (I  counted  them),  and  three  voices  cheered ; 
as  on  other  occasions,  there  was  no  enthusiasm 
that  was  not  paid  for.  The  new-made  absolute 
ruler  vanished  into  Nbtre-Dame,  and  we  were 
left  to  moralize  over  this  rather  appropriate 
climax  to  the  whole  thing — Louis  Napoleon 
inaugurated  in  a  fog. 

For  a  cold  hour  we  waited,  and  admired  the 
front  of  the  cathedral  hung  with  banners,  the 
endless  crowd  of  carved  angels,  saints,  and  pa- 
triarchs looking  from  the  three  beautiful  por- 
tals in  calm,  sad  scorn  at  that  insolent  blazon- 
ry, and  on  the  gay  central  scroll  whereon,  in 
huge,  triumphant,  gilded  figures,  glared  the 
well-known  number  7,000,000!  The  world 
without  amused  itself  as  well  as  it  could ;  the 
dragoons  dismounted,  danced  and  "skylarked" 
in  their  big  boots;  the  officers  gossiped  with 
each .  other  and  arranged  their  long,  flowing 
plumes.  The  infantry  chatted  with  the  crowd, 
lighted  cigars  from  their  neighbors,  helped  old 
women  up  the  steps  with  a  polite  "  Madame, 
permettez ;"  then,  all  feeling  extremely  cold, 
a  simultaneous  stamp  went  through  the  line, 
and  the  people  took  it  up  in  good  time. 

The  crowd  meanwhile  continued  its  small 
comments :    "  Ce  %n'est  pas  aujourd'hui  le  so 
T 


130  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

leil  d' Austerlitz,"  said  one ;  another,  express- 
ing the  then  common  feeling  that  our  premier 
was  the  general  advocate  of  freedom,  observed, 
"  Mais  Lord  Palmerston  n'est  pas  mort,  Dieu 
merci !"  They  did  not  imagine  that  he  had  al- 
ready claimed  a  kindred  spirit  in  the  "  prince- 
president,"  and  appreciated  the  successful  coup 
d'etat 

At  last  the  doors  re-opened,  again  bells  toll- 
ed and  drums  beat,  again  that  fine  troop  of 
lancers  swept  by;  the  dragoons  jumped  to 
their  saddles,  their  swords  ringing  as  they  did 
so,  and  galloped  into  position.  The  Elected 
of  Heaven  reappeared,  in  the  same  safe  state 
as  before,  and  vanished — as  he  had  come — in 
a  mist. 

When  all  was  over,  the  world  outside  want- 
ed to  get  into  Notre-Dame,  which  at  first  they 
were  permitted  to  do ;  but  the  sergents-de-ville, 
who  were  in  an  exceedingly  bad  humor,  turn- 
ed savage,  and,  growling  forth  prohibitions  in 
every  form,  thrust  us  violently  out.  Judging 
by  their  faces,  they  ought,  as  my  friend  ob- 
served, to  have  been  hanged  long  ago.  They 
looked  like  men  conscious  of  having  taken 
part  in  a  failure,  and  disposed  to  revenge  it  on 
the  passive  populace.  We  heard  nothing  save 
that  the  religious  ceremony  had  taken  place. 


THE  JOUR  BE  VAN.  131 

the  makes  of  the  several  arrondissements  ap- 
plauding loudly. 

On  the  Suspension  Bridge  we  stopped  to 
buy  a  medallion  of  Louis  Napoleon  from  peo- 
ple selling  saucerfuls  of  a  plated  and  gilt,  faith- 
less and  flattering  likeness.  Also  a  programme 
of  the  day's  doings,  a  rudely-printed  half-sheet, 
with  a  very  coarse  portrait  of  the  president  in 
the  middle,  over  his  head  a  representation  of 
the  Holy  Ghost  as  a  dove,  the  Saviour  on  the 
cross  on  one  side,  and  the  Almighty  himself 
on  the  other — all,  as  it  were,  in  a  family-party 
together!  The  programme  was  conceived  in 
terms  to  match ;  and,  to  add  interest  to  the  oc- 
casion, a  wonderful,  almost  miraculous  disco v- . 
ery  was  announced  —  made  in  the  course  of 
repairs  to  the  cathedral  porch — of  documents 
hid  in  a  pillar,  of  so  primeval  a  date  as  the 
reign  of  Louis  XV. ! 

As  we  returned  home  along  the  quays,  we 
met  the  special  correspondent  of  one  of  the 
London  papers,  who  somehow  had  failed  to  be 
at  his  post  in  time,  and  asked  us  for  an  account 
of  the  day.  He  told  us  two  facts:  one,  that 
the  president,  in  his  reception  at  the  Tuileries 
last  night,  had  in  his  speech  kindly  promised 
the  people  "a  constitution  in  accordance  with 
their   democratic   instincts;"    the    other,  that 


132  TWENTY  YEABS  AGO.  ^ 

there  was  a  new  decree  ordering  the  arrest  of 
any  one  who  talked  politics  in  the  streets,  to 
be  handed  over,  not  to  the  regular  courts,  but 
to  the  police — that  is,  to  summary  punishment, 
without  examination  or  appeal. 

We  reached  home  at. last,  the  bitter  cold  and 
mortal  fatigue  of  the  three  hours'  walking  and 
standing  being  almost  forgotten  in  our  friend's 
fascinating  conversation.  And  as  I  lay  that 
evening  on  the  sofa,  quite  worn  out  with  fa- 
tigue, I  went  months  back  in  thought.  Who 
would  have  told  that  I — long  shut  up  amidst 
the  deep  quiet  of  my  secluded  English  home 
— should  on  this  day  be  witnessing  the  instal- 
lation of  the  new  Napoleon,  having  for  my  com- 
panion— oh,  what  good-fortune  for  a  hero-wor- 
shipping girl ! — a  poet !  thus  living  through  a 
chapter  of  history  with — I  will  not  name  him 
— but  he  is  now  the  greatest  English  poet  of 
our  day. 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IN  THE  FAUBOUEG  ST.  GEKMAIN. 

AFTER  all  these  literary  and  republican 
soirees,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  Parisian 
aristocratic  world.  In  some  things  it  was  very 
unlike  the  world  in  which  I  had  lived  many 
months;  which  fact  I  discovered  in  the  very 
first  party  of  the  kind  which  Sibyl  and  I  at- 
tended, soon  after  the  coup  d'etat. 

We  had  left  salons  filled  with  wrath,  de- 
spair, and  tumult,  mutiny  as  of  the  Titans 
against  the  new  Jove ;  I  found  here  dwellers 
on  the  Olympian  heights  of  indifference,  meet- 
ing in  an  atmosphere  of  Elysian  calm.  The 
first  person  who  greeted  me  was  M.  le  Due 
de  Montorgueil,  a  proud  aristocrat  in  grain, 
though  he  affected  to  be  much  besides.  He 
assumed  devotion,  patronized  literature,  was 
something  of  a  visionary  philosopher,  who 
spun  fine  theories  about  virtue,  justice,  and  lib- 
erty, about  which  he  loved  to  harangue.  I 
spoke  to  him  with  a  heart  full  of  what  I  had 
seen  and  heard,  only  pitying  beforehand  what 
he  must  feel  even  more  deeply  than  I. 


134  TWENTY  YEAHIS  AGO. 

An  air  of  grand-seigneur  insouciance  and  a 
thin  strident  laugh  put  all  "  heroics  "  to  flight. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  voted  (it  was  during  the 
elections).  He  said,  carelessly,  "Non  ;  je  me 
suis  abstenu." 

"Why?"  was  my  surprised  inquiry. 

"  Because  I  know  of  no  right  that  they  have 
to  impose  a  vote  on  me." 

And  then,  professing  an  easy  belief  that  the 
Eepublic  was  still  to  be  (he,  though  an  aristo- 
crat all  over,  was  yet  a  sort  of  theoretic  fancy 
Republican),  and  passing  by  Louis  Napoleon 
with  the  lightest  and  calmest  disdain,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  descant  on  some  book  of  elegant 
philosophy  which  was  just  then  the  vogue. 

The  plan  of  " abstention"  is  that  which 
most  of  the  grands  seigneurs  (especially  the 
Legitimists)  have  followed ;  it  is  a  protest 
which  the  system  of  ballot  renders  impercepti- 
ble, and  which  only  helps  to  swell  the  presi- 
dent's majority. 

I  almost  fancied — strong  Legitimist  as  the 
marquis  was — that  he  was  not  wholly  discon- 
tented with  the  event  that  had  put  an  extin- 
guisher on  "ces  gueux  de  Republicans,"  as, 
with  a  good-humored,  quiet  intensity  of  scorn, 
he  called  them.  He  denied  the  cruelties  of 
which  Paris  yet  bore  the  crimson  tokens,  say- 


IJST  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  135 

ing  politely  that  the  worst  stories  were  im- 
possible, for  that  no  Frenchman  could  hurt  a 
woman  or  a  child,  hoped  that  these  little  inci- 
dents would  not  frighten  me  away  from  Paris, 
and  altogether  appeared  as  if  all  this  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him.  As  the  room  began  to 
fill,  and  Sibyl,  Hermine,  and  I  drew  our  chairs 
together  to  make  room  for  the  new-comers, 
Sibyl  said,  in  her  thoughtless  way,  "Nous 
faisons  une  barricade." 

"Ah,"  answered  the  gallant  aristocrat,  "s'il 
y  avait  sur  les  barricades  de  tels  petits  ob- 
jets,  tout  le  monde  s'empresserait  de  les  at- 
taquer." 

This  is  one  way,  certainly,  of  taking  the 
doom  of  one's  nation. 

But  I  will  pass  from  those  first  dark  winter 
days,  when,  after  a  brief  spasm,  France  ac- 
cepted her  fate.  The  months  passed  on,  and 
she  was  bearing  it  as  well  as  she  might,  sur- 
prised, perhaps,  to  find  how  bearable  it  was; 
and  now  spring  and  summer  were  smiling  on 
the  renewed  Paris  gayeties.  There  was  a 
grand  hotel  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain 
which  we  occasionally  frequented,  one  of  those 
which  distinguish  the  Eues  Grenelle,  Varenne, 
St.  Dominique,  amidst  the  choked  mass  of 
houses,  and  narrow,  gloomy  lanes  which  com- 


136  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

pose  that  quarter  of  learned  institutions,  quaint 
antiquities,  and  hideous  squalors. 

See,  there  it  is !  one  of  those  solemn,  state- 
ly old  hotels,  with  its  great  arched  doors  rich- 
ly carved,  the  spandrels  filled  up  with  fretted 
iron-work,  the  columns  surmounted  by  stone 
Cupids,  or  figures  in  bronze,  the  grand  solid 
balconies,  with  their  mouldering  rich  stone  or- 
naments. Through  the  porte-cochere  appears  a 
stately  court,  full  of  orange-trees  and  flower- 
beds ;  while  a  low  stone  wall  lets  us  see  the 
large  garden  belonging  to  it,  crowding  togeth- 
er its  masses  of  foliage,  while  a  profusion  of 
white-blossomed  acacia  boughs  hangs  over  the 
wall,  so  that  the  street  is  scented  like  a  wood- 
land grove.  This  particular  hotel  belonged  to 
Madame  de  Mailly,  an  aged  grande  dame,  who 
owned  the  whole  house,  though  she  occupied 
only  the  ground-floor.  She  loved  to  collect 
what  she  considered  a  select  society,  so  of 
course  we  feel  flattered  at  being  included.  I 
believe  we  owed  this  distinction  originally  to 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  Sibyl's  quiet,  indolent 
adorer,  for,  in  spite  of  the  match  on  the  tapis 
with  Hermine,  one  can  see  whose  society  he 
finds  the  most  agreeable. 

Madame  de  Mailly  had  bad  health,  occa- 
sional bad  spirits,  which,  in  speaking  to  us,  she 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  137 

called,  by  way  of  accommodating  herself  to 
our  English  ideas,  ale  spleen"  —  a  malady 
which  the  French  still  firmly  believe  to  be 
paramount  among  us — a  lofty  manner,  and  a 
great  deal  of  benevolence,  as  well  as  a  love  of 
patronizing  genius  after  a  crotchety  fashion  of 
her  own.  This  latter  taste  varied  our  herd  of 
beatified  immortals  (I  mean  sleepy  legitimist 
aristocrats)  with  a  few  notorieties,  who  were  a 
great  deal  more  amusing  to  me.  As  for  ma- 
dame's  own  opinions  —  political,  social,  or  re- 
ligious— all  that  belonged  to  her  as  an  old 
aristocrate,  royaliste,  and  devote — a  "  vieille  de  la 
vieille" —  I  will  say  nothing.  I  will  not  ex- 
pose the  inevitable  results  of  that  elegant  ex- 
ile from  the  world,  that  conservative  trance  of 
existence,  that  tender  and  touching  nursing  of 
old  illusions  and  clinging  to  an  impossible 
state  of  things.  I  will  not  surprise  nor  amuse 
my  readers  with  any  of  the  betises,  of  which 
some  chance  report,  straying  beyond  the  ring- 
fence  of  that  unspeakably  respectable  fau- 
bourg, so  much  delights  all  the  others. 

I  will  only  say  that  they  were  for  the  most 
part  graceful,  kindly,  engaging  people,  though, 
with  the  exception  of  this  genius-patronizing 
grande  dame,  the  ladies  were  mostly  inaccessi- 
ble.    The  grands  seigneurs  one  met  every  now 


138  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  then  at  mixed  soirees,  but  their  wives 
prided  themselves  on  having  exclusive  socie- 
ties. It  is  probable  that  the  gentlemen  had 
chosen  best,  and  went  wherever  they  found 
themselves  best  amused.  When  one  of  these 
stray  lambs,  such  as  M.  de  Montorgueil  or  M. 

de  T ,  came  forth  to  browse  a  while  on  the 

grassy  patches  of  our  wild  democratic  com- 
mon, I  used  to  follow  them  back  in  reverent 
fancy  to  the  solemn,  ineffable  beatitude  and 
repose  of  their  own  regal  stalls  and  rich  park- 
pastures,  and  wonder  how  it  was  with  them 
there. 

This  May  evening  of  which  I  am  going  to 
speak,  we  walked,  as  we  not  unfrequently  did, 
to  the  house  of  Madame  de  Mailly.  It  was  a 
dark,  sultry,  stormy  evening ;  the  purple  sky 
closed  the  dense,  dark  walls  round  the  spires 
and  domes  of  Paris,  massing  them  all  into  one 
blot;  sudden  lightnings  showed  us  the  Pal- 
ace of  the  Corps  Legislatif,  across  the  bridge 
on  which  the  blind  flute-player  continued  his 
year-long  serenade. 

We  arrived:  the  antichambre  was  full. of  hats 
and  great -coats;  yet,  on  entering  the  great 
drawing-room,  a  dimly -lighted,  empty,  silent 
space  met  our  view ;  all  the  visitors  appeared 
to  have  been  mysteriously  swallowed  up.    The 


IJST  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  139 

drawing-room  windows  were  all  open;  we 
looked  into  the  dark  garden  ;  a  sudden  purple 
lightning-flash  sculptured,  as  it  were,  in  a  mo- 
ment a  group  of  people  sitting  on  chairs  and 
couches  under  the  lime-trees,  on  the  grass. 
We  are  lost  for  an  instant  in  the  twilight  as- 
semblage, but  the  stately  figure  of  our  hostess 
raises  itself  aloft  from  the  couch  on  which  it  is 
her  habit  to  recline,  and  solemnly  greets  her 
guests.  There  are  but  a  few,  after  all;  the 
soiree  is  not  begun.  Madame  is  enjoying  a  lit- 
tle quiet  intellectual  talk  with  her  gentlemen 
intimates. 

There  is  the  editor  of  an  intensely  orthodox 
and  legitimist  journal,  fiery  in  its  hatred  of 
England,  infantine  in  its  devout  credulity ;  he 
himself  is  gay,  audacious,  unscrupulous,  at  once 
good-humored  and  deliberately  insulting — ar- 
rogant par  calculj  reckless  and  insulting  also 
on  system.  One  sees  and  hears  in  him  in  five 
minutes  the  dashing,  brilliant,  wholly  untrust- 
worthy Ultramontanist. 

There,  again,  is  a  melancholy,  superstitious 
devotee,  physically  strong  and  daring,  mental- 
ly a  cramped,  timid,  blinded  slave ;  at  the 
Church's  bidding  he  dares  all  dangers  and 
endures  all  hardships,  yet  covers  from  society, 
under  a  shy  mask,  his  secret  ardor.     He  is  not, 


140  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

like  the  first,  a  flint-stone  with  sparkles  on  its 
surface,  but  a  granite  rock  with  fire  at  its  core. 

And  there  is  a  third  devot,  of  another  type ; 
on  the  smooth,  fair  features  plays  a  stereo- 
typed smile;  of  those  placid  eyes  one  can  nev- 
er tell  whether  the  expression  be  craft  or  niai- 
serie;  he  pours  forth  banalites,  and  laughs  with 
a  false  air  of  enjoyment.  So  bland,  quiet,  and 
watchful  is  he,  that  sometimes  I  suspect  him  of 
being  not  only  a  covert  Jesuit,  but  a  spy :  he 
has  been  heard,  I  am  told,  to  utter  liberal  opin- 
ions. His  general  line  is  conversion ;  he  was 
introduced  to  me  as  a  great  theological  doctor; 
but  I  think  my  faith  can  stand  his  arguments, 
just  as  well  as  my  feelings  can  resist  the  com- 
monplace galanteries  (not  much  sillier)  with 
which  he  interlards  them. 

Suddenly  Madame  de  Mailly  says,  in  rather 
an  awakened  tone,  as  if  sure  of  giving  pleasure, 
"  Mdlle.  Beatrice,  M.  le  Due ;"  and  I  am  aware 
of  a  figure,  seen  but  in  outline,  bowing  to  me 
straight  formal  bows,  with  that  punctilious, 
solicitous  air  which  accompanies  French  fine 
breeding.  For  a  moment  I  try  to  remember 
who,  of  all  the  titles  that  haunt  this  salon,  it 
may  be ;  till  another  opportune  lightning-flash 
reveals  more  clearly  the  small,  bowing  figure, 
attired  in  nankeen  trowsers,  after  the  manner 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  141 

of  French  summer-simplicity.  Straightway  I 
recall  M.  de  Montorgueil,  whom  I  had  met 
several  times  at  different  houses,  but  of  whom 
some  months'  interment  in  his  chateau  of 
Provence  had  caused  me  wholly  to  forget  the 
existence.  Now,  he  was  one  to  whom  I  had 
a  very  fine  and  perfect  antipathy.  He  was 
of  the  vieilh  noblesse  and  the  old  school,  and, 
while  much  superior  in  mere  finish  of  manner 
to  those  of  a  newer  class,  was  yet  much  less 
prepossessing.  He  devoted  himself,  of  course, 
in  society  to  the  young  ladies,  but,  though  sin- 
gle and  pertinacious  in  his  purpose,  was  never 
obtrusive,  and  would  sit  in  well-bred  patience 
till  he  had  an  opportunity.  He  was  fond  of 
intellectual  and  literary  subjects ;  he  express- 
ed himself  easily  and  clearly ;  this  was,  as  he 
said,  because  he  thought  clearly  —  in  fine,  he 
was  a  capital  instructor  in  French  conversa- 
tion. But  I  soon  felt  that  his  good  manners 
were  merely  the  accident  of  his  station,  a  les- 
son taught  so  early  that  it  was  now  a  habit 
quite  unconnected  with  himself;  and  that  his 
intellectual  tendencies  were  not  much  more 
real.  He  added  to  this  a  sham  Kepublican- 
ism  and  sham  devotion,  each  a  mere  brain-be- 
lief ingrafted  on  a  cold  egdiste  disposition,  pre- 
ceded, I  imagine,  by  a  youth  and  middle  age 


142  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

of  Parisian  license  (though,  probably,  always 
of  a  cautious,  cold-hearted,  imaginative  sort), 
and  all  pervaded  by  a  something  of  petty  com- 
monplace suiting  well  with  a  sharp,  clear,  but 
borne  understanding.  He  professed  to  have  be- 
gun by  believing  nothing,  but  to  have  known 
in  his  youth  the  sufferings  which  result  from 
ardent  passions,  which  drove  him  to  religion. 
I  observe,  by  the  way,  that  in  French  litera- 
ture the  revolt  of  youthful  minds  from  estab- 
lished theological  dogmas  is  always  represent- 
ed as  the  accompaniment  and  result  of  a  vi- 
cious life,  skepticism,  in  short,  meaning  immo- 
rality ;  whereas  in  England  it  happens  that  the 
young  men  most  disposed  to  question  or  throw 
off  orthodox  beliefs  are  generally  as  strict  and 
pure  in  their  morals  as  they  are  daring  in  their 
speculations. 

The  form  of  piety  which  M.  le  Due  had  em- 
braced was  a  most  extreme  Eoman  Catholi- 
cism ;  he  went  every  day  to  mass,  though  he 
said  he  found  it  joenible,  and  sought  much  to 
convert  young  ladies ;  but  his  outward  mani- 
festations did  not  much  recommend  his  creed 
or  the  kind  of  piety  which  he  talked  by  heart. 
He  had,  too,  a  sort  of  pedantic  sentimentality  ; 
he  said  other  nations  might  like,  but  the  French 
only  could  love.     He  spoke  of  the  passions  of 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  143 

the  heart  and  of  the  head,  and  how  that  the 
Northern  nations  had  neither,  but  lived  most- 
ly "par  l'estomac;"  with  him  I  suspected  pas- 
sions and  affections  existed  only  in  that  small 
portion  of  the  brain  which  communicates  with 
the  tongue.  He  harangued  against  manages 
de  convenance,  and  advocated  conjugal  love ;  he' 
meant  to  write  a  book  on  the  subject,  and  so 
went  about  among  his  acquaintances  collect- 
ing facts  to  illustrate  the  baneful  effects  of 
loveless  marriages;  for  which,  I  suppose,  he 
was  only  looked  upon  as  an  unpardonable  old 
gossip.  In  the  mean  while,  he  lived  with  his 
wife  on  terms  of  the  most  orthodox  indiffer- 
ence. Madame  la  Duchesse  never  appeared; 
she  remained  at  the  chateau  from  April  to 
December,  while  he  was  amusing  himself  in 
Paris,  and,  if  she  was  asked  after,  he  always  an- 
swered only,  "  Madame  est  souffrante."  Once, 
when  he  was  describing  to  me  the  rural  de- 
lights of  his  chateau-life,  I  took  the  opportuni- 
ty of  asking  him,  "Have  you  any  children?" 
and  receiving  an  answer  in  the  negative,  said 
"it  was  a  pity."  "Non,"  he  answered,  very 
decidedly.  "  Ce  n'est  pas  dommage,  je  ne  les 
desire  pas ;  les  enfants  me  derangeraient  dans 
mon  travail." 
•  Having  given  all  this  long  description,  to 


144  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

show  why  I  had  that  disinclination  towards 
M.  le  Due,  I  can  only  conjecture  that  it  was 
on  account  of  that  same  antipathy  that  I  felt 
driven,  as  by  an  uncontrollable  necessity,  to 
show  that  gentleman  more  friendliness  than  I 
felt  for  him  or  wished  him  to  believe  in.  He 
'was  in  amazingly  good  spirits  at  his  return  to 
his  beloved  Paris,  though  he  had  flourished  in 
the  country;  a  something  of  bucolic  joviality 
was  added  to  his  tint  and  dimensions. 

Not  quite  recovered  from  the  first  confusion 
of  having  quite  forgotten  him,  I  held  out  my 
hand,  which,  by-the-bye,  is  a  very  particular 
mark  of  favor  here.  It  was  taken  with  a 
murmur  of  delight,  and  held  so  long  that  I 
began  to  wonder  when  I  should  have  it  back 
again. 

Having  nothing  else  in  particular  to  say,  I 
observed,  "  My  sister  and  I  were  speaking  of 
you  to-day,  and  wondering  when  you  would 
reappear."  This*  was  true,  but  I  did  not  add 
that  we  had  expressed  our  perfect  resignation 
at  his  absence,  and  had  straightway  wholly  for- 
gotten him  again.  I  felt  a  little  ashamed  when 
he  answered,  in  much  delight,  "Ah,  vous  avez 
pense  a  moi  ?  II  y  a  done  de  la  sympathie  en- 
tre  nous?     Que  e'est  touchant!" 

He  had  been  busy,  he  told  me,  in  organiz- 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  146 

ing  on  his  estate  a  girls'  school,  of  which  it  was 
evident  he  was  extremely  proud. 

"What  was  the  school  -  mistress  ?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"La  perfection!"  he  answered,  with  anima- 
tion; "une  religieuse,  si  jolie,  si  gracieuse;" 
and  here  the  Frenchman  of  the  world  shone 
out  to  the  extinction  of  the  philosophical  devot. 
A  thousand  compliments  on  the  kind  interest 
I  took  in  his  poor  humble  attempts  to  do  good 
followed. 

Ere  long,  as  soft-falling  rain-drops  had  fol- 
lowed the  lightning,  we  all  took  refuge  in- 
doors ;  the  small  circle  gathered  together,  and 
our  hostess  remained  invisible  in  the  depths 
of  a  profound  arm-chair,  where  she  was  wont 
to  hold  equally  or  still  profounder  discourse 
with  some  pet  savant  or  artist  whom  she  had 
called  to  her  side.  By-and-by  the  circle  widen- 
ed, and  guest  after  guest  dropped  in,  till  the 
large  room  was  full  of  feathers  and  white 
necks,  and  full  floating  dresses,  and  gentlemen 
standing  up,  black  and  tall,  or  circulating  from 
one  radiant  group  to  another. 

I  asked  one  of  my  friends  —  the  orthodox 

journalist  I  mentioned  before  (whom  I  shall 

call  M.  Jules) — why  there  was  so  much  more 

splendid    an    assemblage    than    usual :    there 

K 


146  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

must  have   been  especial  invitations  for  this 
evening. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said ;  "  we  are  to  have 
a  treat — the  debut  of  a  lady  who  is  going  upon 
the  stage.  As  a  journalist,  I  am  infinitely  in- 
terested in  rising  talent ;  I  am  always  prophe- 
sying its  splendid  development,  but  I  don't  see 
much  of  it  after  the  first  year.  This  lady  is  to 
declamer  some  scenes  of  tragedy  and  comedy. 
Mon  Dieu!  the  tragedy  and  comedy  will  be 
doubly  supplied,  for  you  must  know  she  is  an 
especial  protegee  of  madame  our  hostess;  conse- 
quently, all  the  other  protegees  and  clients  are 
jealous  of  her,  some  for  her  beauty,  some  for 
her  talents.  Moreover,  there  is  here  a  dame 
who  boasts  to  be  quite  as  clever  in  her  way, 
and  of  quite  as  much  social  influence  as  our 
hostess,  but  they  hate  each  other — like  dear 
friends — and  I  suspect  there  will  be  a  party 
got  up  against  this  unfortunate  Ermengarde. 
You  know  an  unestablished  talent  of  this  kind 
is  very  easily  run  down,  and  I  expect  the  or- 
deal here  will  be  as  severe  as  on  the  boards  of 
the  Francais  or  the  Grymnase.  Pour  moi,  I  am 
her  friend,  and  have  engaged  to  do  my  best  for 
her ;  I  am  to  lead  the  applause,  and  we  are  to 
arrange  the  pit  so  as  to  get  a  good  body  of 
claqueurs.    I  shall  place  you,  mademoiselle,  be- 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  147 

side  me ;  you  must  take  your  cue  from  me,  and 
applaud  fervently.  Think,"  he  was  pleased  to 
add,  "you  will  be  doing  it  for  a  lady,  young, 
beautiful,  and  gifted  as  yourself,  who,  hav- 
ing sank  into  poverty,  is  obliged  to  earn  her 
bread." 

Young — beautiful — gifted!  I  was  so  used 
to  French  compliments  now  that  I  only  smiled 
— unoffended  and  unmoved.  uWho  is  Er- 
mengarde  ?"  I  asked. 

"She  is  the  wife  of  a  public  official  once 
highly  favored  and  esteemed,  now  ruined  by 
enemies  and  a  fatal  combination  of  circum- 
stances ;  this  generous  and  devoted  woman  is 
resolved  to  raise  him  again  to  his  natural  and 
just  position.  You  will  admire  and  be  inter- 
ested in  her,  I  know ;  vous  avez  le  coeur  bon 
et  sensible,  a  heart  which  does  homage  to 
goodness  and  talent,  and  which  will  not  be 
rendered  cold  and  hostile  by  charms  which 
you  need  not  fear,  but  which  are  almost  nec- 
essary to  her  success  in  the  path  she  has 
chosen." 

In  spite  of  all  this  fine  sentimentality  and 
superb  flattery,  I  was  puzzled  by  the  expres- 
sion of  my  friend's  eye,  which  bordered  on 
the  comic;  but  I  knew  he  was  one  who  sel- 
dom chose  to  be  perfectly  serious,  and  I  deter- 


148  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

mined  to  reserve  my  opinion  till  I  saw  and 
had  learned  something  of  the  fair  Ermengarde. 
In  the  mean  while,  till  she  should  appear,  I 
amused  myself  with  watching  the  various  per- 
sonages in  the  room,  which  I  could  do  the 
more  easily  as  most  of  them  were  as  yet  un- 
known to  me. 

It  was  a  sufficiently  varied  assemblage  ;  rank 
and  talent  had  joined  their  forces.  There  is 
a  fine  French  poet,  a  sweet  English  poetess — 
there  is  the  opponent  of  Ermengarde  and  of 
her  patroness,  as  yet  unsuspicious  of  the  coun- 
ter -  manoeuvres  preparing  against  her,  and 
looking  supreme  satisfaction  at  herself,  and 
supreme  scorn  of  all  but  the  small  clique 
which  she  kept  under  her  command.  This 
same  opponent  was  none  other  than  Madame 
de  Fleury  —  Hermine's  mother.  She  was  a 
woman  of  a  small,  elegant  figure,  and  a  face 
whose  irregular,  queerly  twisted  features  had 
an  odd  but  pleasant  effect  in  good -humor, 
though  they  were  more  quickly  transformed 
to  actual  ugliness  by  an  un amiable  emotion 
than  any  I  ever  saw.  Their  most  characteris- 
tic expression  was  a  compound  of  conceit,  arro- 
gance, and  intense  malice ;  but  her  manners, 
whenever  that  familiar  demon  of  spite  was  not 
uppermost,  were   gay,  witty,  and   flatteringly 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  149 

polite.  Hermine  had  a  kind  of  delicate  resem- 
blance to  her  mother ;  her  bright  young  face 
exhibited  some  of  the  same  traits,  but  in  her 
they  looked  attractive. 

In  the  same  group  were  two  or  three  other 
young  ladies,  friends  of  Hermine,  with  their 
gorgeous  mammas.  One  of  these  girls  was  a 
superb  beauty,  though  not  of  a  kind  to  inter- 
est one  long,  as  her  charm  was  simply  that  of 
lines  and  colors.  Intensely  black  eyes  and 
hair,  pencilled  dark  arched  eyebrows,  set  off 
by  a  dazzling  carmine  complexion  and  the 
rich  red  flowers  she  wore  on  her  head,  with  a 
ruby  ribbon  passed  under  the  glossy  front 
bands,  gave  that  most  un-English  effect  of 
beauty  which  is  the  best  kind  that  one  sees 
here,  and  of  which  the  only  expressions  ad- 
mitted of  are  a  rapid  coquettish  play,  a  regal 
smile,  or  a  hard,  imperious  pride. 

I  did  not  much  admire  the  manners  of 
these  young  ladies,  least  of  all  those  of  the 
beauty,  who  was  called  Laure,  and  who  seemed 
full  of  vain  self-consciousness.  They  laughed 
loud,  made  a  noise,  moved  their  chairs,  tossed 
their  heads,  shook  their  dresses,  tapped  their 
mothers,  borrowed  fans,  and  seemed  trying  to 
attract  notice.  I  do  not  think  they  could 
have  been   la  creme'  de  la  crime — they  must 


150  TWENTY  YEABti  AGO. 

have  been  wealthy  aspirantes.  Several  young 
men  certainly  approached  near  Mademoiselle 
Laure,  but — strangely  enough,  though  I  sup- 
pose most  correctly  French  —  talked  entirely 
to  her  handsome  mamma,  who  seemed  well 
inclined  to  keep  them,  while  her  daughter 
amused  herself  by  looking  a  little  scornful. 

However,  as  Hermine  and  the  others  were 
meantime  talking  and  laughing  most  gayly 
vith  me,  the  lofty  Laure  bent  forward,  and 
said,  "Allez-vous  beaucoup  dans  le  monde, 
mademoiselle  ?"  Presently  we  found  our- 
selves discussing  the  great  subject  of  the  day, 
the  empress-elect,  whom  Mademoiselle  Laure 
began  describing  to  me  with  great  animation 
and  minuteness,  though  it  soon  appeared  that 
there  was  no  particular  good-will  felt  towards 
her.  The  young  ladies,  especially  the  beauty, 
betrayed  a  sense  of  insult  that  a  foreigner  had 
been  chosen  for  that  place  of  honor.  I  did 
not  intrude  on  them  my  eccentric  English 
view  of  its  being  rather  a  place  of  dishonor. 
They  cordially  agreed  to  my  conjecture  that 
they  considered  themselves  every  bit  as  wor- 
thy of  empress-ship  as  Mademoiselle  de  Mon- 
tijo,  made  game  of  parts  of  the  Emperor's 
matrimonial  speech,  and  were  altogether  rath- 
er lofty  and  scornful  about  it.     I   presently 


f 
IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  151 

gathered  that  the  fair  Laure,  though  of  noble 
and  Legitimist  family,  would  have  no  objec- 
tion to  figure  in  the  plebeian  court  from  which 
family  prejudice  as  yet  excluded  her. 

While  we  were  still  talking,  I  was  again 
addressed  by  M.  de  Montorgueil,  who  had  left 
me  promising  to  return — a  promise  I  could 
have  excused  his  not  keeping.  He  was  won- 
derfully smitten  with  the  charms  of  Mademoi- 
selle Laure,  and  inquired  of  me,  aside,  who  was 
that  "belle  personne?"  was  she  French?  for 
she  was  of  the  Spanish,  at  least  of  the  meridio- 
nal type. 

I  said,  I  thought  pure  French ;  still  he  per- 
sisted she  must  have  Spanish  blood  in  her. 
So  I  turned  to  her,  and  put  the  question  di- 
rect. She  laughed,  and  said  "Yes;  her  moth- 
er was  a  Spaniard,  and  her  father  was  of  the 
south  of  France,  and*  she  herself  by  birth  a 
Marseillaise."  When  I  conveyed  this  back  to 
M.  le  Due,  he  began  praising  her  grace  and 
beauty  in  detail.  "  Look,"  says  he,  "  how  sup- 
ple she  is ;  look  at  her  wrists  and  hands  as  she 
plays  her  fan ;  none  but  a  Spaniard  has  that 
graceful  pliancy." 

Of  course  I  agreed,  as  it  was  all  uttered  in 
a  voice  which  I  was  convinced  was  meant  to 
meet  her  ear,  as  it  could  hardly  help  doing, 


152  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  seemed  to  have  done,  by  the  graciousness 
of  her  adieux  to  me  when  her  party  took  leave 
shortly  after. 

But  I  must  not  look  only  at  handsome 
women,  especially  just  now  when  the  very 
handsomest  man  I  ever  saw  is  close  by,  mak- 
ing his  way  to  Sibyl's  side,  and  next  moment 
bowing  to  me.  He  too  is  of  the  south,  but  his 
style  is  far  softer  and  more  ideal.  His  imperi- 
ally tall  figure,  the  superb  curl  and  blackness 
of  his  mustache  and  hair,  the  straight  pale  fea- 
tures, the  suppressed  ardor  of  his  large  black 
eyes,  the  languid  haughty  grace  of  his  manner, 
his  twenty-two  years,  his  title  of  marquis — do 
not  all  these  things  make  the  very  hero  of  a 
French  romance  ?  I  don't  know  if  he  is,  or 
wishes  to  be  one ;  I  can  discern  that  he  is  ac- 
customed to  conquer,  and  to  believe  himself 
irresistible,  and  I  think*[  can  read  underneath 
all  an  intense  self- worshipping  pride,  and  that 
cold  calmness  against  which  passion  may  break 
its  heart  in  vain.  He  is  "  trying  it  on"  now 
with  Sibyl ;  I  wonder  if  he  thinks  he  has  suc- 
ceeded. I  can't  fancy  any  man  having  so  con- 
ceited an  idea ;  with  all  that  innocent  sweet- 
ness, there  is  something  so  puzzling,  so  almost 
hopeless  in  her.  A  word  can  touch  and  inter- 
est her ;   a  frank,  cordial  manner  delights  her. 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG   ST.  GERMAIN.  153 

and  all  the  folds  of  reserve  drop  aside ;  but 
power  over  her  heart,  her  soul,  no  one  seems 
to  have,  except  her  child  and  myself.  She  can 
no  more  be  caught  and  detained  than  a  bird 
that  lights  for  a  moment  on  a  blossomed 
spray ;  and  all  she  does  is  so  utterly,  uncon- 
sciously unpremeditated,  one  wonders  ewhat 
delicate  instinct  so  frequently  guides  her  right ; 
but  one  scarcely  wonders  that  every  one  seems 
to  take  up  the  protection  of  one  who  will  not 
protect  herself. 

Suddenly  symptoms  of  distraction  and  amuse- 
ment appear  in  the  expectant  circles.  Differ- 
ent groups  pause  in  their  talk,  look  sideways, 
struggle  with  suppressed  smiles,  with  undenia- 
ble laughter.  The  cool,  clever  journalist,  who 
was  at  that  moment  arguing  some  subtle  theo- 
logical point  with  me,  suddenly  parenthesized 
in  the  very  core  of  the  argument,  and  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  tone,  "Look  at  that  man,  he 
comes  from  the  Tuileries;"  and  then  he  went 
on  unmoved  as  before. 

I  looked,  and  beheld  a  little  man  enter,  look- 
ing like  a  wizen  and  bedizened  ape.  He  was 
a  man  I  knew  as  perhaps  the  most  curiously 
ugly  of  my  acquaintance,  but  had  difficulty  in 
recognizing  under  his  present  metamorphosis ; 
though  the  fine  uniform,  with  epaulettes,  gold 


154  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

braid,  little  sword,  and  Legion  of  Honor  rib- 
bon, made  his  frog-like  figure,  his  stiff  black 
wig,  his  immense  green  spectacles,  and  huge 
mouth,  look  more  of  a  caricature  than  ever. 

The  secret  was  that  he  had  just  received 
an  office — a  place,  I  think,  in  some  new  coun- 
cil the  great  ruler  had  chosen  to  create,  and, 
knowing  the  weakness  of  man's  heart,  had  ap- 
pended thereto  a  gay  costume.  As  it  was, 
many  had  had  the  unaccommodating  folly  to 
resist  the  offer  of  this  distinction  even  as  an 
insult ;  but  M.  Ledindon  was  not  one  of  these, 
and  so  one  who  ought  only  to  have  been  a 
crack-brained  savant  was  turned  into  a  poli- 
tician— and  here  he  was  among  us,  an  Impe- 
rialist, an  enemy,  a  spy !  "  Let  us  take  no  no- 
tice of  him — he  wants  to  be  admired,"  said  one 
sensible,  tranquil  man.  So  we  continued  talk- 
ing as  usual,  not  very  freely  perhaps  (no  one 
did  so  in  those  days),  but  still,  not  suppressing 
any  side  hit,  disdainful  tone,  or  cynical  smile, 
from  regard  to  the  neighborhood  of  one  who 
had  just  been  breathing  semi-imperial  air. 

The  effects  produced  by  this  remarkable  ap- 
parition were  various.  One  queer,  plain-spoken, 
impetuous  lady,  stopped  in  what  she  was  say- 
ing by  seeing  her  companion's  eye  fixed  else- 
where, turned  sharp  round,  beheld  that  pre- 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  155 

posterous  vision,  gave  a  rapid  stare,  exclaimed 
in  a  jerk,  "  Mon  Dieu  !" — then,  turning  abrupt- 
ly round  and  choking  down  her  emotion,  re- 
sumed her  talk  with  only  a  fiercer  and  more 
vigorous  vivacity.  I  suffered  much  from  a 
violent  desire  to  laugh,  which  my  companion's 
perfectly  unmoved  face  made  me  conceive  it 
my  duty  to  suppress.  He  inquired  gravely 
what  I  saw  remarkable  about  that  gentleman, 
and  seemed  so  wholly  unconscious  of  any  rid- 
icule attaching  to  him  that  I  had  to  relieve 
myself  by  commenting  on  the  ugliness  of  the 
uniform.  "Oui,"  said  he,  demurely,  "mais  la 
personne  l'embellit.  Vous  paraissez  beaucoup 
occupe'e  de  ce  monsieur,"  he  observed,  and  po- 
litely, but  quite  unfoundedly,  added,  "Et  lui 
aussi,  il  parait  beaucoup  occupe  de  vous."  I 
envied  some  gentlemen  who,  retired  on  a  sofa 
and  screened  from  observation,  indulged  them- 
selves in  the  refreshment  of  unrestrained 
laughter. 

All  this  while  never  was  ball-room  beauty 
sending  her  first  thrill  of  admiration  through 
a  crowd  more  utterly  satisfied  than  this  little 
monster.  To  one  who  had  the  cold-blooded 
malice  to  congratulate  him  (it  was  my  cynical 
journalist,  who  wished,  I  suppose,  to  crown 
my   admiration)   he    spoke   modestly   of  "ce 


156  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

compliment  qu'on  m'a  fait,"  described  with 
reverent  gusto  the  brilliant  soiree  he  had  just 
left,  and  the  mild  and  gracious  majesty  of  S. 
A.  E.,  and,  in  short,  perfumed  that  free  atmos- 
phere with  the  incense  of  a  court. 

It  was  a  very  different  apparition  that  came 
next.  A  young  and  handsome  woman  enter- 
ed, leaning  on  the  arm  of  an  elderly  man,  a 
thin,  pale,  bent  figure.  "  VoilsL  Ermengarde !" 
was  gently  buzzed  around.  I  looked  atten- 
tively at  both — I  scarcely  knew  which  of  the 
pair  struck  me  most. 

The  husband  (whose  misfortunes  were  im- 
puted to  misdoing)  was,  in  face,  features,  and 
expression,  colorless  and  unmarked,  yet  not 
from  original  stupidity,  but  as  if  worn  out  by 
years  of  trouble  and  struggle ;  the  stamp  might 
once  have  been  strong,  but  constant  attrition 
had  half  effaced  it.  When  I  knew  his  history, 
I  did  not  wonder  at  the  look.  It  was  the  air 
of  one  who,  tossed  about  on  the  sea  of  life, 
shipwrecked  often,  battered  and  bruised,  had 
lost  all  standing-place,  and,  floating  uncertain- 
ly about,  clung  here  and  there,  and  only  hum- 
bly sought  leave  to  rest  awhile,  to  use  the  mo- 
mentary shelter  and  support  ere  he  was  wash- 
ed off  again  to  trust  to  chance  whether  to  sink 
or  swim.     With  this  look  as  of  an  unrecog- 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  157 

nized  vagrant  in  society  he  attended  his  wife, 
whose  youth  and  bolder  spirit  jpushed  her  for- 
ward to  something  more  like  a  distinctive 
place.  Yet  in  her,  too,  I  perceived  a  lurking 
uneasiness  arming  itself  in  haughty  defiance, 
and  stinging  her  to  desperate  resolve.  Cer- 
tainly, when  she  entered  she  was  pale  and 
nervous,  and  very  quiet :  I  saw  that  she  ex- 
pected hostility,  and  pitied  her. 

As  for  what  I  thought  of  her,  I  could  not 
for  some  time  make  up  my  mind.  "How 
handsome!  how  disagreeable!  yet  how  very 
striking!"  were  my  successive  impressions. 
Ermengarde  is  a  splendid  -  looking  creature, 
but  she  is  (for  me)  too  strongly  of  the  French 
actress  type  —  and  yet  what  strength,  what 
deep-rooted  individuality,  what  stern  and  con- 
centrated will,  may  be  read  there ! 

That  that  strength  failed  for  a  moment,  and 
the  proud  face  and  figure  looked  almost  timid- 
ly shrinking  before  the  assembly  where  she 
felt  she  had  no  place,  made  her  touching  in 
my  eyes.  Otherwise,  I  might  have  more  cold- 
ly admired  the  severe  outline  of  face,  the  strong 
black  arch  of  the  almost  meeting  eyebrows, 
close  over  her*  magnificent  eyes  (great  orbs 
full  of  a  dark  radiance),  the  strong  nose  and 
full  voluptuous  mouth,  the  great  rolls  of  shin- 


158  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

ing  black  hair  wound  round  and  round  her 
head  under  a  coronet  of  black  velvet  and  lace, 
the  figure  full,  firm,  and  noble,  robed  in  a  rich 
amber  silk,  cut  very  low  on  the  shoulders, 
which,  with  the  face  at  present  so  pale,  looked 
as  if  carved  in  yellow  ivory. 

I  half  suspected  our  hostess  of  an  eccentric 
wish  to  see  a  little  drawing-room  warfare.  I 
believe  it  was  only  her  wonted  indolent  pas- 
siveness ;  but  certainly  she  did  not  manage  as 
she  might  have  done.  Many  in  the  room 
were  her  enemies,  and  those  who  sympathized 
with  her  were  not  in  a  position  to  help  her. 
She  took  refuge  beside  an  English  lady  to 
whom  she  had  just  been  introduced,  a  lady  at 
once  good  and  gifted.  It  was  the  best  place 
in  the  room,  though  the  contrast  was  great  be- 
tween the  grand,  stormy,  prononcee- looking 
French  actress,  and  the  small,  quiet,  but  pure, 
sweet,  and  saintly-looking  little  English  poet- 
ess, who  spoke  to  her  with  gentle  kindness. 
The  troubled  face  grew  calm,  the  half-bitter, 
half-humbled  look  began  to  melt  away. 

Things,  moreover,  began  to  improve  for  her. 
The  benevolent  had  been  properly  primed,  the 
groups  were  arranged  on  the%right  plan,  my 
friend  M.  Jules  was  to  make  the  signal  for  the 
applause,  and  the  gentleman  who  was  to  give 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  159 

her  the  replique  in  the  scenes  she  was  about 
to  declamer  entered  at  last.  This  was  a  most 
excellent,  soft-hearted  old  gentleman  of  high 
rank  and  illustrious  lineage,  who  was,  in  fact, 
Ermengarde's  chief  patron,  and  at  whose  en- 
trance she  smiled  with  a  look  of  relief  and 
hope.  The  good  old  soul  took  his  stand 
against  the  wall,  arrayed  in  black  velvet  shorts, 
a  pair  of  thick  silver-rimmed  spectacles  over 
his  broad  nose,  book  in  hand,  full  of  bonhomie, 
but  of  no  dignity. 

A  grand  Eussian  princess  was  to  be  the 
great  judge  of  the  performance  :  she  sat  in  an 
arm-chair  opposite  the  actress,  looking  pomp- 
ous and  critical.  Sibyl  and  I  sat  at  the  end 
of  a  sofa  a  few  paces  from  Ermengarde,  curi- 
ous and  even  anxious,  but  very  passive  and 
modest,  as  became  strangers  and  foreigners. 
Just  opposite  me  was  a  large  mirror,  in  which 
I  could  watch  not  only  the  countenance  of  the 
actress,  but  all  the  by-play  of  the  various  spec- 
tators. Madame  de  Fleury  retreated  instantly 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  where  she  gath- 
ered her  own  clique  around  her,  and  began 
operations  by  yawning  and  looking  another 
way.  The  handsome  marquis  stood  towering 
in  the  background,  arms  folded,  eyes  burning- 
ly  riveted  on  the  performer  the  whole  time 


160  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

with  a  sombre  expression  that  left  no  doubt  of 
his  intense  admiration.  He  seemed  to  forget 
for  the  moment  that  he  too  might  be  looked 
at,  and  dropped  the  soft  sentimental  mask 
from  a  face  that  then  seemed  to  me  to  betoken 
the  pride  and  passions  of  a  tyrant. 

The  shyest  man  in  the  room,  a  great  trav- 
eller, had  contrived,  as  shy  men  so  often  do, 
to  get  into  the  very  most  conspicuous  position, 
the  empty  central  space  between  mirror  and 
fire-place,  where  Ermengarde  was  to  perform. 
But  suddenly  awaking,  with  a  look  of  dismay, 
to  a  sense  of  his  position,  he  started  up  and 
cowered  into  a  place  on  the  sofa  by  Sibyl  and 
me,  and  there  fell  into  a  deep,  gloomy  abstrac- 
tion, which  rendered  him  unconscious  of  the 
whole  performance. 

The  lady  stepped  forth,  her  paleness  chang- 
ing into  a  deep  crimson,  and  began  to  "  de- 
claim," first  from  "Phedre,"  to  whose  scenes 
of  deep,  lurid,  guilty  pathos  her  rich  voice 
and  passionate  tones,  as  well  as  the  rapid, 
sweeping,  stormy  movements  of  her  fine  fig- 
ure, and  the  meteoric  flashes  of  her  glorious 
fiery  eyes,  certainly  did  justice.  Then  came 
the  usual  stage  tricks,  the  starting  forward,  the 
rushing  back,  the  cowering  about  the  stage, 
the  striking  of  forehead  and  heart,  and  espe- 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  161 

cially  the  stretching  forth  of  the  arm  and  the 
quivering  of  the  forefinger;  and  when  these 
reached  their  height  there  came  from  the 
French  part  of  her  audience  a  momentary  ap- 
plause. But  I,  who  had  my  own  deep,  pre- 
conceived ideas  of  what  was  the  proper  acting, 
and  who  had  once  in  my  life  seen  it  realized, 
felt  chilled  by  what  might  be  very  suitable  to 
French  and  violent  organizations,  and  pleas- 
ing to  kindred  eyes.  I  was  full  of  benevo- 
lence, but  unable  to  say  that  my  idea  of 
"  Phedre  "  was  in  the  least  realized.  If  I  was 
passive,  however,  others  were  not ;  for,  at  one 
of  the  most  impassioned  parts,  I  saw  one  or 
two  persons  of  the  clique  referred  to  turn 
away,  not  to  bide,  but  to  exhibit,  a  laugh.  Er- 
mengarde's  husband,  who  had  fluttered  about 
in  nervous  suspense  all  the  time,  when  it  was 
over  glided  from  group  to  group,  watching 
timidly  the  expression  of  every  face,  and, 
wherever  he  thought  he  discerned  symptoms 
of  good-will,  pausing  in  the  hope  of  a  compli- 
ment. I  pitied  the  poor  humbled  man,  who 
had  once  had  no  need  to  hold  the  hat  for  his 
wife's  earnings. 

The  second  specimen  was  from  the  "  Misan- 
thrope." Celimene  is  a  very  French  character, 
and  she  did  it,  after  the  French  style,  exceed- 


162  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ingly  well;  she  gave  the  part  a  new  and  ef- 
fective coloring,  derived,  no  doubt,  from  her 
own  personal  sensations.  Under  the  saucy 
smile,  the  artificial  graces,  the  brilliant  gayety, 
there  lurked  something  of  scornful  bitterness, 
like  the  proud,  rankling  sense  of  wrong;  and 
one  passage  especially,  where  the  saucy  co- 
quette retorts  on  her  jealous  detractors,  she 
gave  with  such  gusto  and  spirit,  such  haughty 
smiles,  and  such  triumphantly  blazing  eyes, 
that  the  audience  fairly  broke  into  a  buzz  of 
pleasure.  The  good  old  duke,  who  had  splut- 
tered away  the  different  parts  of  young  lover 
and  censorious  prude,  and  every  now  and  then 
good-naturedly  interrupted  himself  to  cry, 
"Bravo!  charmant!  tres-bien !"  looked  really 
delighted  now,  and  the  hostile  party  corre- 
spondingly sulky.  But,  after  all,  it  was  a  pain- 
ful exhibition,  and  I  was  glad  when  the  scene, 
with  its  by-play  of  real  life  and  under-mean- 
ing, was  over,  and  Ermengarde,  complimented 
by  our  hostess  and  led  back  to  her  seat  by  the 
paternal  duke,  closed  it,  amidst  pallors  and 
flushings,  and  agitated  breath,  with  a  far  more 
natural  and  gratified  smile  than  had  yet  risen 
to  her  lips. 

A  short  time  after  this  she  appeared  at  the 
Theatre  Francais,  and,  to  my  surprise,  found 


IN  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  GERMAIN.  163 

one  of  her  bitterest  critics  in  the  very  gentle- 
man who  had  appealed  to  my  "coeur  bon  et 
sensible  "  to  help  to  champion  her  against  en- 
vious detractors.  Madame  de  Fleury  won  a 
triumph.  How  she  achieved  it  I  know  not; 
but  there  was  so  much  love  and  hate  continu- 
ally lost  and  won  in  these  smiling  salons,  that 
I  need  not  have  wondered  at  any  change. 
The  French  vanity,  at  one  time  so  amiable, 
confiding,  loving,  and  chivalrous,  can  at  others 
be  rabid,  cruel,  and  bitterly  ungenerous;  and 
with  this  powerful  lever,  no  doubt,  she  had 
worked.  Or  was  he  perhaps  all  the  while  an 
enemy  in  the  guise  of  an  admirer  ? 


164  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BALLS. 

AS  the  season  advanced  we  varied  the  prose 
of  Paris  society  with  some  of  its  poetry, 
and  quitted  the  mere  terra  firma  of  such  par- 
ties as  I  have  just  described  for  the  aerial  re- 
gion of  the  soiree  dansante.  Talking  glided 
into  dancing,  high  silk  dresses  melted  into 
ethereal  muslins  and  tarlatans,  and  the  agree- 
able middle-aged  men  vanished  before  a  crop 
of  half-grown,  slender-mustached,  small  young 
men,  chiefly  pupils  of  the  flcole  Polytechnique, 
who  danced  demurely,  as  is  the  French  fash- 
ion, discoursed  with  their  partners  discreetly 
and  politely,  and,  laboring  under  a  conviction 
that  all  the  most  charming  of  their  young  lady 
acquaintances  were  deeply  in  love  with  them, 
made  ingenuous  confidences  on  that  head  to 
elder  men,  to  be  cynically  laughed  at  in  conse- 
quence. 

All  this  was  entertaining,  no  doubt,  and  then 
perhaps  the  rooms  were  better,  the  dancing 
more  graceful,  and  the  dresses,  if  not  the  faces, 
prettier  than  in  ordinary  London  ball-rooms. 


BALLS.  165 

But  a  ball  is  not  the  scene  where  national 
character  is  best  displayed ;  besides,  I  went  to 
no  public  ones.  These  latter  had  at  that  time 
a  political  character  by  which  the  humblest 
individual  in  it  could  not  exempt  himself  from 
being  influenced,  and  we  had  no  wish  to  emu- 
late the  forty  devoted  English  whose  names 
appeared  in  the  papers  a  few  days  after  the 
coup  d'etat  as  having  "dined  at  the  Elysee." 
So  my  sense  of  honor  kept  me  away  from  the 
most  superb  of  balls  given  by  the  prefet  of 
the  Seine  to  the  prince-president  at  the  Hotel 
de  Ville. 

It  is  true  I  went  to  see  the  building  a  few 
days  after;  and  when  I  found  myself  in  the 
salle  de  bal,  alas !  I,  a  girl  in  my  teens,  could 
not  help  thinking  with  envy  of  the  happy 
groups  who  had  had  a  chance  of  exhibiting 
their  gay  dresses  and  joyous  spirits,  their  grace 
and  their  dancing  in  this  Aladdin's  Palace. 
How  grand  must  have  been  the  long  galops 
through  each  lofty  space  between  the  triple 
rows  of  arches  and  fluted  and  gilded  columns, 
under  a  ceiling  all  blazing  with  pictures  and 
chandeliers  that  were  so  many  festoons  of  pend- 
ulous gold,  dropped  with  rainbows,  between 
walls  all  painted  with  airy,  fanciful  arabesques, 
with  mirrors  that  glittered  back  a  hundred 


166  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

nymphs  for  one,  every  inch  of  the  whole  a 
crowded  paradise  of  rich  color  and  enjoyment! 
Ah !  what  Olympian  flirtations,  of  what  super- 
seraphic  grace  and  refinement,  should  have 
been  held  in  that  hall  of  halls !  A  vision  of 
De  Mornays,  Persignys,  Princess  Mathildes, 
and  a  leathery -looking,  dead-eyed  Idol  whom 
these  obsequious  phantoms  encircled,  dispersed 
that  first  fair  dream. 

Private  balls  I  did  sometimes,  however,  at- 
tend, but  I  will  describe  only  one  of  them,  as 
having  been  rather  more  distinctive  than  the 
others.  It  was  a  Greek  ball,  given  by  a  Greek 
princess,  and  the  company,  except  a  very  few 
Englishwomen  and  Frenchmen,  were  wholly 
Greek  and  Wallachian.  How  did  we  all  come 
together?  and  how  did  we  manage  to  mix  so 
easily  and  so  agreeably  ?  As  I  recall  this,  and 
other  such  scenes,  there  rises  in  an  instant  be- 
fore my  sight,  like  rosy  morning  clouds  in  the 
wide  sky,  a  crowd  of  young,  beauteous  heads 
of  many  races,  princesses  by  birth  or  by  beau- 
ty, some  dark-haired,  radiant  and  royal  from 
the  South,  some  angels  of  the  North,  blonde 
and  ethereal,  with  the  gold  crown  of  their 
Saxon  hair.  And  the  men,  with  all  their  sep- 
arate spells  of  genius,  high  birth,  or  wild,  in- 
tense individuality,  bringing  from  all  parts  of 


BALLS.  167 

the  world  all  kinds  of  histories  and  destinies, 
each  solitary  among  crowds,  yet  most  of  them 
drawn  to  other  new-found  existences,  and 
some  passionately  striving  to  draw  those  ex- 
istences to  themselves,  putting  forth  temporary 
tendrils  and  winning  transient  power. 

At  one  of  these  romantic  evenings,  I  saw  the 
meeting  of  two  wild,  bearded  men  —  half  En- 
glishmen, who  had  been  over  half  the  world, 
and  were  now  pursuing  art  and  literature  in 
an  interval  of  their  adventurous  lives.  I  knew 
both  well,  but,  though  they  accidentally  met 
while  each  conversing  with  me,  it  was  as 
strangers,  till  one  suddenly  exclaimed,  "Did  I 
not  meet  you  six  years  ago  in  a  slave-market 
at  Bagdad?" 

This  produced  inquiry  and  final  assent. 
"Will  you  allow  me  to  press  your  hand?"  re- 
sumed the  first,  in  his  strange,  solemn  way  and 
foreign  phrase.  The  second  slowly  produced 
that  member  from  his  waistcoat-pocket,  it  was 
shaken,  and  then  they  began  talking  of  beau- 
tiful Circassian  slaves  whom  they  had  seen. 
I  did  not  think  the  second  man  liked  the  first 
one.  A  young  Italian  joined  the  group,  and, 
the  conversation  turning  on  love,  the  first, 
in  his  strange,  vehement,  labored  tones,  pro- 
nounced. "  Non  v'  e  schiavo  cosi  sprezzabile 


168  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

come  un  uorao  che  ama."  I  listened  and 
thought,  "Your  history  is  nevertheless  in  those 
words." 

A  few  weeks  after,  and  this  man,  on  whose 
brow,  if  ever  on  any,  was  written  a  birth-curse, 
and  whose  perplexed  destiny  must,  it  seemed 
to  me,  evolve  finally  in  disaster,  lay  assassin- 
ated on  a  public  staircase.  The  other  return- 
ed to  distant  and  savage  regions,  and  has  nev- 
er since  been  heard  of.  There  was  a  mystery 
in  all  this  ;  but  it  is  not  I  who  may  unravel  it. 
It  was  but  one  of  many  facts  whereby  I  learn- 
ed that  this  bright,  white-palaced  Babylon  of 
Paris  was  built  over  naphtha  lakes,  from  whose 
boiling  mass  escaped  from  time  to  time  lurid 
exhalations  even  through  the  smooth  pave- 
ment our  sandals  trod  so  lightly. 

However,  no  gloom  of  this  kind  shadowed 
the  lively  picturesque  Greek  ball  I  began  to 
speak  of.  As  we  entered  the  house  in  the 
Eue  Varenne,  we  heard  quadrilles  going  on 
merrily ;  an  old  Greek,  with  a  very  big  head 
and  a  most  romantic  name,  who  acted  as  a 
sort  of  friend,  agent,  and  major-domo  to  the 
princess,  advanced  to  meet  us.  His  propor- 
tions were  colossal,  and  did  not  prepare  me  for 
the  next  apparition,  that  of  the  princess,  a  lit- 
tle dwarfish  woman,  with  a  round  smiling  face, 


BALLS.  169 

quick  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  bird-like  vivacity 
of  gesture,  well  suited  to  the  soft  mouse-color- 
ed silk  that  trimly  encased  her  tiny  form.  She 
led  us  to  a  seat,  holding  us  by  the  hand,  with 
many  kind  words  and  affectionate  attentions, 
which  I  supposed  to  be  Greek,-  because  they 
seemed  to  me  neither  French  nor  English. 
She  took  us  through  the  four  rooms  prepared 
for  dancing  and  supper;  in  the  middle  and 
largest  room  a  ring  of  ladies  gradually  formed, 
sitting  formally  all  round  it  on  benches. 

Then  stepped  or,  rather,  skipped  forward, 
her  daughter,  amusingly  like  her  mother,  only 
smaller  and  nimbler  still.  There  was  no  pos- 
sible guessing  of  her  age ;  she  was  a  perfect 
pigmy,  with  manners  that  you  might  regard 
either  as  the  formed  and  conscious  ease  of 
womanhood,  or  the  familiar  vivacity  of  a  child. 
She  was  all  over  kindly  life  and  good-humor, 
a  sparkling  little  thing  with  bright  eyes  like 
her  mother,  the  prettiest,  most  caressingly  at- 
tentive manners,  and  an  air  of  irrepressible 
happiness.  She  did  the  honors  as  no  English 
girl  would  or  could  have  done ;  she  came  fly- 
ing across  the  room,  seeing  me  standing  chair- 
less  at  the  other  end  of  it,  to  bring  me  to  her 
and  seat  me  by  her  side.  Then  she  entered 
into  bright,  laughing  conversation,  her  words 


170  TWENTY  YUAMiS  AGO. 

running  into  each  other  like  the  gay  chatter- 
ing notes  of  a  bird.  "  How  long  have  you 
been  in  Paris?  How  can  you  have  learned 
so  soon  to  talk  such  good  French?  I  am 
studying  it  too ;  I  have  been  four  months  en 
pension  to  learn  it ;  I  must  try  to  be  good  and 
industrious  like  you." 

Then  she  pointed  out  to  me  her  mother's 
sister,  another  princess,  and  a  very  splendid- 
looking  woman,  her  daughter,  whom  my  little 
friend  perfectly  adored,  and  eagerly  asked  if  I 
did  not  admire  her  too.  She  was  not  new  to 
me ;  I  had  met  her  and  her  mother  at  Madame 
de  Mailly's,  and  been  much  attracted  by  the 
girl.  She  was  a  slight  young  creature,  sitting 
alone  at  a  table,  turning  over  a  book,  apparent- 
ly quite  content  with  her  isolation,  quite  inac- 
cessible to  any  gentleman  who  might  approach 
her,  but  not  unwilling,  when  occasion  arose,  to 
flavor  society  with  her  own  strong  individuality. 

I  thought  she  might  be  a  character  worth 
studying,  judging  first  by  that  piqaante  rather 
than  pretty  face,  by  the  coal-black,  rippling 
hair,  drawn  tightly  from  the  square  temples, 
yet  protesting  by  its  crisp  curl  against  that 
constraint,  by  the  small,  pointed  features,  with 
their  indifferent  smile,  and  the  slight  yet  strong 
and  elastic  form,  round  which  fitted  closely 


BALLS.  ,  171 

the  square-cut  body  of  her  scarlet  plaid  dress. 
I  fancied  that  there  was  under  her  girlish  re- 
serve and  simplicity  a  nature  firm,  self-concen- 
trated, even  proud,  almost  fierce — a  nature  as 
yet  half  known  to  herself,  coiled  up,  like  some 
wild  animal,  in  some  shady  recess  of  that  sun- 
ny girl-life.  I  thought  she  must  have  inherit- 
ed her  father's  character,  for  just  of  that  stuff 
should  a  patriot  insurgent  be  made,  and  he 
was  one  of  those  who  had  won  Greece's  liber- 
ties. I  learned  afterwards  that  Mademoiselle 
Helfene  had  a  brother  who,  though  a  pupil  in 
the  Nicole  Polytechnique,  had  chosen,  like  an 
ill-considered  young  foreigner  as  he  was,  to*  be 
at  the  top  of  a  barricade  during  the  two  fear- 
ful days,  and  that  she  had  hardly  been  kept  by 
force  from  rushing  out,  in  the  passion  of  her 
sisterly  affection,  to  join  her  brother  there. 

She  was  of  Athenian  race,  born  in  Constan- 
1  tinople,  brought  up  in  Eussia,  living  in  Paris, 
yet  Greek  all  over;  and  when  she  spoke  of 
her  classic  studies  (she  was  then  in  Sophocles), 
it  was  in  a  tone  of  more  thorough  interest  than 
she  had  used  about  any  thing  else.  Wishing 
to  try  how  national  she  was,  I  asked  her  how 
she  liked  her  king  (Otho).  "Our  king?" 
she  answered,  with  a  quiet  laugh ;  "  we  have 
none  yet;  that  will  come  by-and-hy." 


172  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

None  of  the  Paris  fine  gentlemen  seemed  to 
suit  the  fair  Helene;  she  constantly  turned 
away  with  an  air  of  shy  pride,  very  piquant 
and  very  hopeless.  She  danced  a  little,  it  is 
true,  but  it  was  silently  and  carelessly,  with 
the  air  of  a  mere  looker-on.  I  only  saw  once 
a  look  of  animated  observation ;  it  was  on  the 
entrance  of  M.  Ledindon,  whose  appearance  in 
a  new  costume  I  related  in  a  former  chapter. 
He  observed  on  it  to  me  afterwards  with  some 
surprise:  "Do  you  know  that  as  I  passed 
Mademoiselle  Hel&ne,  she  laughed,  and  point- 
ed me  out  to  her  mother.  I  don't  know  what 
shS  could  have  noticed  in  me ;  peut-etre,"  he 
added,  reflectively,  passing  his  hand  across  the 
stiff,  straight  hairs  of  a  most  palpable  and  un- 
deniable black  wig,  "peut-etre  mes  cheveux 
£taient  un  peu  deranges." 

M.  Ledindon  is,  I  am  assured,  on  the  look- 
out for  a  wife,  and  has  been  so  these  twenty 
years ;  she  must  be  young,  handsome,  and, 
most  especially,  rich,  and  English;  and  "chose 
remarquable,"  as  he  himself  says,  he  has  not 
got  her  yet. 

But  I  am  forgetting  the  ball-room — that 
bit  of  Greece  in  a  Paris  frame-work.  It  was 
filled  with  Greeks,  those  who  were  not  pure 
Hellenes  being  Wallachians,  Moldavians,  and 


BALLS.  173 

Hungarians  —  handsome  barbarians  disguised 
in  civilized  attire,  with  tall  forms,  straight 
noses,  and  strong  curly  beards,  like  statues 
of  antique  heroes.  All  round  the  room  sat  a 
circle  of  dark-eyed  classic  girls,  clustering  like 
so  many  bouquets  of  pinks,  blue  and  white,  and 
modest  as  daughters  of  Britain,  in  all  the  po- 
etry of  their  floating,  girlish  robes,  contrasted 
with  their  statuesque  Greek  faces.  The  gen- 
tlemen grouped  themselves  in  the  centre  and 
in  the  ante-rooms,  talked  merrily,  and  played 
good-humoredly  with  various  sprightly,  well- 
behaved  juvenile  Hellenes;  and  a  strange  mu- 
sical language  was  heard  from  every  group; 
the  sound  as  of  grand  old  Homeric  hexame- 
ters kept  ringing  past  me,  just  like  a  clear 
stream  running  over  pebbles.  But  never  did 
the  speakers  approach  any  of  us  forbidden 
blossoms  of  beauty  till  the  music  struck  .up. 
Then  one  by  one  they  timidly  drew  nigh  the 
charmed  ring,  each  picked  out  a  girl,  danced 
silently  with  her,  and,  dancing  done,  as  silent- 
ly restored  her  td  the  same  place.  In  spite  of 
this  chilling  ceremonial,  the  Homeric  heroes 
went  through  waltz,  polka,  schottische,  ma- 
zurka, and  redowa  with  vehement  glee  rather 
than  grace ;  the  girls  seconding  them  in  inno- 
cent-looking, soft,  decorous  enjoyment. 


174  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

But  all  was  not  in  keeping;  there,  in  the 
midst  of  these  fine-looking  Greeks,  with  their 
honest,  hearty,  simple  ways,  stood  la  jeune 
France,  cold,  keen-eyed,  and  sneering.  And  I 
must  confess  there  were  specimens  of  barba- 
rian eccentricity,  uncouth  form,  and  grotesque 
physiognomy,  which  fairly  provoked  the  ridi- 
cule of  the  one  or  two  malicious  Parisians 
present.  Especially  contemptuous  was  M. 
Lamourette,  who  found  himself  there  in  one 
of  his  most  capricious  and  petulant  humors. 
I  do  not  know  why  he  had  come  at  all,  unless 
he  was  really  a  "little  jealous  as  well  as  con- 
temptuous ;  or,  perhaps,  from  having  lately 
had  a  great  deal  of  hard  work  to  do,  his 
nerves  and  temper  had  got  into  a  state  of  ir- 
ritation which  he  found  a  certain  savage  pleas- 
ure in  expressing.  In  this  mood  of  vivacious 
sourness  he  was  quite  as  amusing  as  in  his  for- 
mer brilliant  good-humor;  but,  perhaps,  less 
likeable.  No  doubt  it  was  " aggravating"  to 
see  two  or  three  charming  girls  whom  he  con- 
sidered his  exclusive  property  engrossed  by 
Messieurs  les  Sauvages.  He  professed,  indeed, 
entire  indifference,  and  when  one  and  another 
came  up  to  claim  these  elegant  creatures,  he 
resorted  to  me  in  the  intervals  of  my  dancing, 
and,  throwing  himself  in  a  chair  by  my  side, 


BALLS.  175 

with  his  usual  nonchalant  vivacity,  professed 
that  now  he  need  not  sacrifice  himself  any 
longer,  he  need  not  talk  nor  trouble  himself 
about  all  these  gens,  and  might  resign  himself 
to  his  only  object  of  desire,  "  de  ne  rien  faire." 

But  I  knew  better,  and  was  not  at  all  sur- 
prised when  he  instantly  began  to  abuse  one 
unfortunate  Wallachian  gentleman  in  specta- 
cles, who,  with  an  air  of  ineffably  imbecile  be- 
atitude, was  dancing  with  the  Princess  Hel&ne. 
"  Can  you  imagine,"  he  asked,  "how  a  man 
can  succeed  in  making  himself  so  absurd  ? — 
Mon  Dieu!"  he  added,  seriously,  while  follow- 
ing him  with  his  eyes,  as  if  subdued  with  as- 
tonishment, "c'est  d'un  ridicule  fabuleux;  a 
Frenchman,  Dieu  merci !  could  not  achieve  it 
with  his  utmost  efforts!" 

I  might  have  had  my  own  ideas  as  to  what 
a  Frenchman  could  achieve,  but  I  remained 
passive  while  he  pursued  his  unconscious  vic- 
tim with  arrows  of  malice ;  and  then  another, 
who,  he  declared,  made  on  him  the  effect  of 
a  hanneton,  because  he  was  dancing  with  our 
hostess's  daughter.  He  pronounced  this  nice 
little  thing  a  "  coquette  effrenee,  who  promised 
but  did  not  fulfill,"  because  in  her  universal 
impulsive  good-nature  she  had  sometimes  said 
"Yes"  to  more  claimants  for  her  hand  than 


176  TWENTY  YEAMS  AGO. 

she  could  possibly  gratify.  Thus  he  went  on 
till  a  third,  in  a  naval  uniform,  with  sharp  dog- 
like features  and  an  intensely  red  face,  came 
to  carry  me  off;  and  when  I  returned  to  my 
place,  the  abuse  was  transferred  to  him,  or 
rather  to  me,  for  the  improper  encouragement 
I  had  given  him.  "Were  I  your  brother,"  he 
said,  with  solemn  energy,  "I  should  feel  it  my 
duty  to  prevent  you  from  dancing  with  him." 

"If  you  could,"  laughed  I.  "But  why, 
when  it  amuses  me?" 

"Bon!  bon!"  he  said,  with  severe  dignity; 
"n'en  parlons  plus.  I  am  sorry  that  your 
taste  is  not  more  correct j  voila  tout.  No 
doubt  I  make  myself  enemies  by  my  plain 
speaking,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Truth  is  my 
weakness ;  I  must  speak  truth  or  not  at  all ; 
c'est  la  ma  maniere,"  and  here  he  threw  him- 
self still  more  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  overpow- 
ered at  this  view  of  his  own  singular  excel- 
lence. Somewhat  piqued  by  my  not  exhibit- 
ing the  same  emotion,  "  Au  reste,"  he  said ; 
"if  I  have  enemies,  I  don't  care;  their  dis- 
pleasure does  not  affect  me.  All  I  wish  is  to 
please  myself,"  which  latter  assertion  I  believed 
to  be  perfectly  true. 

"  Then,  monsieur,  you  frankly  avow  your- 
self an  egotist  ?" 


BALLS.  177 

"  Sans  doute,  we  are  all  egotists ;  but  there 
are  different  ways  of  pleasing  one's  self — the 
best  is  by  pleasing  others,  and  I  shall  be  satis- 
fied if  I  attain  that  degree  of  enjoyment  with 
those  I  care  for." 

In  spite  of  this,  I  wondered  a  little  at  the 
turn  M.  Lamourette's  egotism  had  taken ;  I 
scarcely  knew  then  how  violently  jealous  a 
Frenchman  is  of  another  man. 

I  continued  amusing  myself  with  the  brill- 
iant scene  around  until  it  was  time  to  depart. 
And  then  the  small  demoiselle  came,  with  her 
still  smaller  brother,  to  beg  us,  to  entreat,  al- 
most to  force  us  to  stay.  Finding  it  in  vain, 
she  accompanied  us  to  the  door  with  a  thou- 
sand gentillesses,  and  the  boy  cloaked  us  with 
much  gravity  and  care.  After  many  adieux 
and  au  revoirs,  she  declared  she  must  "em- 
brasser"  me,  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  give  me 
the  prettiest  little  kiss  in  the  world.  I  won- 
der on  how  many  of  her  some  hundred  guests 
the  good  little  thing  found  it  necessary  to  be- 
stow the  same  cordialities.  At  any  rate,  it  was 
a  pleasant  and  artless  way  of  doing  the  hon- 
ors, and  I  know  some  ladies  who  would  be 
none  the  worse  for  taking  a  hint  from  it. 

When  I  returned,  I  told  Sibyl,  who  had  not 

accompanied  me,  about  M.  Lamourette's   un- 
M 


178  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

usual  petulance.  She  laughed  a  little  saucily, 
and  only  said,  "  We  need  not  puzzle  ourselves 
about  it,  for  I  don't  think  we  shall  see  much 
more  of  him."  In  effect,  he  disappeared  from 
our  usual  parties,  and  it  was  two  or  three 
months  ere  we  met  him  again.  When  he  re- 
appeared he  totally  ignored  Sibyl  and  me,  and 
devoted  himself  ostentatiously  to  Madame  de 
Fleury,  who  had  chosen  to  make  public  her 
disagreement  with  my  sister,  and  to  set  up  an 
obvious  rivalry  with  her.  Our  friend  Emile 
told  us,  with  a  kind  of  pitying  condescension, 
that  "  ces  professeurs  "  were  a  class  apart,  who 
had  not  good  manners,  and  must  not  be  too 
harshly  judged.  But  my  own  observation 
helped  me  to  the  chief  cause  of  the  professor's 
vagaries.  He  had  always  had  a  fluttering, 
ostentatious  admiration  for  Sibyl,  which  she 
received  with  the  gayest  indifference,  knowing 
well  in  how  little  danger  all  these  grandes  pas- 
sions involved  the  susceptible  French  heart. 
But  one  day  M.  Lamourette  was  pleased  to  be 
more  serious,  and  risked  a  rejection,  which, 
though  very  kindly  given,  wounded  at  once 
his  love  and  his  self-love  very  considerably. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  returned  to  Ma- 
dame de  Fleury's  clique  (to  which  he  original- 
ly belonged)  with  a  tolerable  dose  of  bitterness 


BALLS.  179 

against  his  stony-hearted  idol — my  sister.  I 
don't  think  it  was  a  deeply  rancorous  feeling, 
for  at  heart  he  was  bon  enfant,  after  all.  But 
Madame  de  Fleury  had  no  notion  of  wasting 
so  much  precious  resentment ;  so  she  petted 
and  nursed  his  angry  confidences  till  he  had 
committed  himself  to  a  breach  with  Sibyl,  and 
an  alliance  with  her  venomous  little  stepmoth- 
er-in-law.  I  was,  of  course,  included  in  the 
ban,  and  from  that  time,- 1  dare  say,  as  long  as 
he  remembered  us,  he  ridiculed  with  his  coun- 
trywomen "  ces  deux  begueules  anglaises." 

I  have  said  enough,  I  think,  to  show  that 
these  soirees  were  not  composed  of  a  society 
of  seraphs,  or  held  in  a  garden  of  Eden.  I  be- 
came gradually  aware  that  my  first  bright  im- 
pressions of  "the  world"  required  modifying. 
"Tenir  un  salon"  is  a  great  mystery,  an  im- 
portant science  in  Paris,  and  it  has  been  laid 
down  as  an  axiom  that  the  prestige  of  a  salon 
lasts  only  two  years ;  for  some  undefinable 
cause  it  then  declines,  the  best  people  leave  it, 
and  all  the  mistress's  exertions  will  not  get  it 
up  again.  For,  eminently  sociable  as  the 
Frenchman  is,  this  curiously  organized  being 
is  as  capable  of  ennui  as  any  Englishman  of 
them  all,  but  he  shines  in  the  candid  and  petu- 
lant vivacity  with  which  he  expresses  the  same. 


180  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

His  light  spirit  and  nervous  sensitiveness  are 
soon  liable  to  depression  ;  a  thing  pleases  him 
heartily,  it  is  true,  but  not  for  long;  it  must  be 
unfamiliar  enough  to  allow  him  to  idealize  it. 

And  then  both  hosts  and  guests  have  hu- 
man hearts  and  prides  and  vanities,  which,  if 
they  do  not  rasp  the  surface,  still  strongly  af- 
fect the  springs  that  work  beneath  it.  It  looks 
such  a  light,  easy,  pretty  play;  people  come 
and  go,  and  nothing  seems  smoother ;  but  ah  ! 
the  cares  and  pains  of  the  hostess,  the  continu- 
al beating-up  for  new  recruits,  the  trapping  of 
lions,  the  interference  and  tyranny  of  favorites, 
the  putting  down  and  driving  out  of  some  and 
the  courting  of  others,  the  secret  jealousies  and 
hostilities  of  the  smiling  demoiselles,  the  perfect 
insight,  the  calm,  critical,  I  should  rather  say 
pleased  and  sarcastic,  observation  of  the  lynx- 
eyed  men  on  it  all !  If  even  a  half-initiated 
stranger  could  see  these  things,  what  must  be 
the  wearisome  experiences  of  the  hackneyed 
habitue  ! 

On  these  private  jealousies  I  will  not  dwell 
much,  but  I  may  observe  that  they  came  more 
across  my  notice  from  the  fact  that  Sibyl,  a 
half-foreigner  and  undeniably  more  charming 
than  many  of  the  natives,  was  a  good  deal  ex- 
posed to  them.     I  was  often  anxious,  pained, 


BALLS.  181 

and  indignant  for  her ;  but  she  winged  her 
way  delicately  through  all  the  mazes,  the  ad- 
miration, and  at  times  the  love,  the  envy  and 
misrepresentation  that  threatened  to  entangle 
her  way.  She  went  past  adoring  glances  and 
hands  stretched  out,  half  violence,  half  prayer, 
like  a  bird  of  Paradise  safe  in  its  charmed 
flight,  or  like  a  dove,  which,  with  all  its  way- 
ward, rapid  flutterings,  yet  settles  down  on 
some  light  spray  at  last,  so  softly  as  not  to 
loosen  one  petal  even  from  a  fading  rose.  To 
speak  less  poetically,  she  had  a  true,  warm, 
home-loving  heart  of  her  own,  and  her  joy  in 
having  me,  her  only  sister,  with  her  at  last, 
gave  her  such  a  strength  of  security  and  indif- 
ference as  made  her,  I  almost  thought,  blind  to 
what  was  going  on  around  her. 

I  don't  know  how  to  describe  the  feeling 
which  animated  Madame  de  Fleury,  whom  I 
have  described  as  something  of  a  fahy-demon. 
She  was,  I  believe,  keenly  jealous  of  Sibyl ; 
the  root  of  this  jealousy  was  the  fact  that  M.  le 
Comte  (now  fiance  to  her  daughter)  had  begun 
by  admiring  my  sister,  and  this  was  embittered 
by  numberless  other  little  triumphs  of  poor 
Sibyl's,  of  which  she  had  been  unconscious,  or 
only  pleased  as  a  child  may  be  with  its  own 
success.      The  mechancete  exhibited  in  conse- 


182  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

quence  was  of  a  thoroughly  French  character, 
such  as  in  its  slighter  forms  is  the  light  malice 
born  of  a  vain  heart,  an  acute  brain,  and  a  gay 
temper,  relieving  the  tastelessness  of  perfect 
amiability,  and  deeping  out  amidst  serious  ten- 
derness, even  sublime  devotion.  It  does  not 
violate,  though  it  checkers,  friendship,  and  it 
at  least  refines  the  coarseness  of  enmity.  Ma- 
dame de  Fleury  was  much  too  well-bred  to 
exhibit  enmity  in  its  broader  form ;  and  as  for 
Hermine,  happy,  admired,  feted  little  creature 
as  she  was,  her  vanity  generally  bore  her  along 
comfortably,  and  only  permitted  occasional  bou- 
deries  and  child-like  impertinence. 

Hermine  had  certainly  some  occasional  justi- 
fication for  resentment,  as  far  as  regarded  her 
cousin  flmile,  with  whom  she  liked  very  much 
to  flirt  in  a  cousinly  way,  but  who  had  a  way  of 
expressing  his  admiration  of  the  Anglaises  in 
phrases  which  seemed  negatively  to  imply  a 
want  of  those  particularly  admired  qualities  on 
the  part  of  his  countrywomen.  One  day,  after 
he  had  left  the  room,  and  finished  a  panegyric 
on  the  fearless  independence  of  Englishwomen, 
which  he  thought  guarded  them  better  than 
the  most  careful  surveillance,  Hermine  ex- 
claimed, rather  petulantly,  "My  cousin  may 
say  what  he  likes ;   I  can  not  contradict  him, 


BALLS.  183 

for  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Je  suis  toute  in- 
nocente,"  she  added,  with  a  most  artless  air ; 
"  je  ne  sais  rien  que  je  ne  puisse  dire." 

And  off  she  ran  to  play  battledoor  with  her 
little  brother,  while  Sibyl  assured  me  that 
there  was  nothing  at  all  really  of  the  child 
about  her.  It  is  true  Hermine  was  kept  un- 
der that  strict  discipline  the  tendency  of  which 
is  to  produce  either  a  characterless  doll  or  a 
corrupted  slave.  But  the  French  character, 
keen,  intense,  and  vigorous,  will  burn  like 
smothered  fire  under  a  coating  of  restraint 
which  would  stifle  any  other ;  and  Hermine, 
who  possessed  a  full  share  of  the  esprit  of  her 
race  and  sex,  while  patiently  and  cheerfully 
awaiting  her  day  of  development,  was  a  very 
finished  little  being,  on  whose  thorough  exact- 
ness, harmony,  and  grace  the  eye  and  the  mind 
could  find  pleasure  in  dwelling. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  she  should  now  and 
then  pay  back  her  countrymen's  strictures 
with  a  hit  at  us.  Sometimes  she  would  pat- 
ronize us  and  tell  us  we  looked  almost  "  Pari- 
sienne ;"  then,  when  a  wicked  fit  was  on  her, 
she  would  jump  up  and  imitate  our  style  of 
walking  and  talking  —  not  very  exactly,  I 
thought,  though  enough  so  to  send  both  her 
mother  and  herself  into  fits  of  laughter.     Her- 


184  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

mine  was  fully  persuaded,  like  most  French- 
women, of  her  own  infinite  superiority  in  out- 
ward manners,  which  claim  I  used  to  let  pass 
uncontested,  so  as  at  least  not  to  damage  our 
character  for  politeness,  or  bring  forward  a 
new  proof  of  our  deplorable  insular  deficiency. 
Besides,  I  thought  well  enough  of  my  own 
countrywomen  on  higher  grounds,  to  be  will- 
ing to  let  Frenchwomen  cherish  in  peace  their 
little  social  glory. 

English  and  French  girls  have  probably  a 
strong  class-resemblance,  in  spite  of  national 
differences.  Both,  no  doubt,  are  "  ignorant 
and  frivolous  enough,"  as  Mr.  Bennett  says  in 
"  Pride  and  Prejudice" — that  is,  very  undevel- 
oped and  chaotic.  In  the  English  girl  there 
is  mostly  a  naturalness,  which,  in  a  shy  nation 
like  ours,  often  gives  her  manners  a  timid  awk- 
wardness, an  abrupt  sincerity,  a  something  of 
coldness,  but  which  in  the  higher  natures  often 
escapes  in  the  shy  expression  of  some  deep 
feeling  or  idea,  unconscious  of  its  depth,  com- 
ing softly  and  doubtfully  from  the  bottom  of 
the  heart  or  mind,  some  high  conception,  rich 
in  its  very  vagueness,  simply  expressed,  yet 
wise  in  its  simpleness,  in  which  we  discern  the 
twilight  that  will  brighten  more  and  more  to 
the  perfect  day. 


BALLS.  185 

But  such  as  these  are  no  doubt  exceptional ; 
as  exceptional,  perhaps,  is  the  perfect  type  of 
the  Frenchwoman,  who  to  the  brilliant  grace 
and  fascinating  sweetness  so  universal  among 
them  adds  the  tenderness  of  soul,  the  refine- 
ment of  feeling  and  intelligence,  the  delicate 
yet  kindly  penetration,  and  the  playful  loving- 
ness,  which  make  up  a  whole  as  near  the  ideal 
woman  as  any  I  have  ever  seen.  That  such 
Frenchwomen  exist — charming  alike  without 
and  within — I  not  only  suspect,  I  know.  God 
bless  them !  They  are  enough  to  ennoble  a 
whole  race. 


186  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PARIS    IN    APRIL. 

THE  bright  days  of  Paris  are  begun,  and 
she  looks  like  a  young  beauty  dressed 
and  decked  out  to  receive  the  homage  of  a 
thousand  lovers.  Hitherto  I  have  spoken  only 
of  salons  and  soirees,  yet  there  was  an  outdoor 
and  daylight  life  equally  bewitching. 

It  is  a  blue,  sunshiny  April  afternoon,  and 
Sibyl  and  I  look  out  from  our  lofty  troisieme  on 
the  bright  city  all  alive  and  awake.  Below  us 
lie  the  Champs  Elysees,  with  their  ever-passing 
swarms  like  ants  covering  the  shining  pave- 
ment between  the  avenues  of  trees.  How  gay, 
open,  and  fresh  every  thing  looked,  from  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  to  the  Eond  Point !  little 
was  visible  save  wide,  smooth,  shady  avenues, 
broad  pavement,  circling  trees,  and  blue  skies. 
There  is  Franco ni's  just  before  us,  in  a  perfect 
bosquet;  the  chestnut -trees  all  round  it,  now 
dotted  with  soft,  green  buds,  will  in  a  month 
conceal  it  in  a  perfect  veil  of  foliage.  All  the 
groups  that  pass  below  look  neat  and  cheerful, 
move  lightly  and  alertly,  all  are  talking,  smil- 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  187 

ing,  and  bowing  to  each  other,  and  wear  that 
look  of  being  so  consciously  bien  mis  that  only 
the  French  rejoice  in. 

On  the  ground-floor  of  our  house  is  a  shop, 
where  a  great  steam-engine  constructs  gauffres 
and  plaisirs  (a  sort  of  light,  crisp  patisserie)  all 
day  long.  On  the  bright  pavement  in  front 
chairs  are  placed,  where  well-dressed  family- 
groups  sit  and  enjoy  their  cakes.  How  these 
French  love  to  be  out-of-doors !  There  enters 
a  couple  of  ladies ;  it  is  my  new  friend,  Mdlle. 
Aurelie,  and  her  mother,  come  to  make  their 
luncheon  of  gauffres;  she  looks  handsome, 
well-dressed,  and  quietly  resolute  as  usual, 
when  making  her  courses  en  ville.  Consider- 
ing that  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  they 
had  their  cup  of  coffee  and  brioche,  at  eleven 
their  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette,  and  will  at  six 
have  their  substantial  dinner,  and  that  they  are 
now  revelling  in  cakes,  I  think  these  French 
ladies,  at  least,  need  not  deride  the  English  for 
the  number  and  solidity  of  their  meals.  Per- 
haps they  will  call — for  the  French,  when  they 
become  intimate,  make  it  a  point  of  friendship 
never  to  pass  your  door  without  coming  in ;  * 
and  a  bonne  causerie  with  Mademoiselle  Aure- 
lie is  always  welcome. 

Sibyl  is  now  busy  arranging  bunches  of  Par- 


188  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ma  violets,  which  M.  Emile  has  just  brought 
her,  in  spite  of  my  protest  against  the  imperial 
flower.  "Violets  were  created  long  before 
Louis  Napoleon,"  says  Emile.  "And  we  won't 
let  him  Have  every  good  thing  to  himself," 
adds  Sibyl.  This  settled,  we  go  forth  to  enjoy 
more  of  this  pleasant  life.  Close  outside  is  a 
dense,  unmoving  ring,  which  has  stood  there 
all  the  afternoon,  composed  of  workmen,  wom- 
en, and  children,  and  those  childish,  idle  sol- 
diers of  the  line,  with  their  short  figures  and 
boyish  faces,  around  the  ever- new,  ever -de- 
lightful feats  of  some  juggler,  or  tumbler,  or 
dancing  dog. 

What  varieties  of  human  life  there  are  in 
this  promenade,  becoming  daily  more  crowd- 
ed, the  charming  Champs  filyse'es!  They  ex- 
tend from  the  honest  bourgeoise)  in  large  cap, 
coarse  stuff  gown,  thick  apron  and  immense 
pockets,  accompanied  by  a  clean,  prim  child, 
the  countrywoman  with  her  yellow-and-red- 
striped  handkerchief  round  her  head,  the  shab- 
by, bearded  men  in  blue  blouses,  and  Repub- 
licans in  conical  caps,  young  and  wicked-look- 
*  ing,  to  the  handsome,  staring  dandies  of  all  na- 
tions, old  Orientals  in  a  perfect  robe  of  snow- 
white  beard,  soldiers,  soldiers  everywhere,  and 
numbers  of  small,  white,  curly  dogs  held  to- 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  189 

-  gether  in  a  leash,  or  following  elegant  women 
in  all  kinds  of  soft,  beautiful  velvets  and  furs. 
And  the  flower  -  women !  they  beset  our  way 
with  fragrant  snares ;  they  offer,  smiling  and 
confidently  (for  well  they  know  Sibyl's  weak- 
ness), and  with  coaxing  phrases  and  ternis  of 
endearment,  lovely  bouquets  of  violets  and 
moss-roses.  And  there  is  the  neat  bonne,  and 
children  in  enchanting  little  dresses,  white  hat 
and  feather,  braided  white  frock,  and  muff  of 
snowy  fur,  as  often  as  not  talking  English  with 
their  nurses. 

The  most  remarkable  among  these  street  fig- 
ures are,  perhaps,  the  meridionaux,  a  race  apart, 
which  one  soon  learns  to  distinguish,  who  are 
very  tall,  often  very  handsome,  in  a  dark,  lurid 
style,  with  hard  features,  and  physiognomies 
full  of  fierce  fire.  I  almost  shrink  from  those 
volcanic-looking  men  of  the  South. 

We  passed  through  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, and  entered  among  the  groves  of  the 
Tuileries  gardens.  Here  spring  was  coming 
on  fast ;  the  white  marble  gods  and  goddesses, 
heroes,  centaurs,  fauns,  and  nymphs  began  to 
be  enshrined,  each  in  its  own  leafy  bower.  I 
looked  back,  and  dazzling  in  sky  and  sunshine 
appeared  the  stately  Place,  with  its  guardian 
giant  of  an  obelisk,  strange  talismanic-looking 


190  TWENTY  YEABS  AGO. 

columns  towering  in  the  middle ;  while  the 
aerial-looking  Arch  of  Triumph  closed  up  the 
distance,  like  a  dream,  cut  out  in  costal, 
through  which  you  see  the  pure  azure  back- 
ground of  sky.  It  looks  like  a  vision,  only 
that  it  never  melts  away. 

And  now  we  are  in  the  Tuileries  gardens, 
formal  parterres,  full  of  lilac-trees,  that  now 
are  covered  with  purplish-brown  clusters:  one 
day  more,  and  these  buds  will  be  hundreds  of 
full  pink  fragrant  flowers.  As  I  approach  the 
palace,  I  see  a  Municipal  Guard,  his  back  turn- 
ed to  me,  with  a  broad  yellow  stripe  across  it, 
his  bayonet  fixed,  his  sword  by  his  side,  stand- 
ing stock-still,  and  looking  immovably  up  at 
the  great  stone  lion  on  the  right  side  of  the 
entrance  arch,  with  its  foot  on  the  globe  and 
a  look  of  imbecile  sweetness.  What  does  he 
think  of  it?  He  has  seen  it  a  thousand  times 
already. 

In  a  day  or  two  there  was  a  special  excite- 
ment—  the  fete  of  Longchamps  was  to  take 
place.  This  is  the  fete  which  the  Parisians 
keep  with  the  most  pious  ardor  for  three  days 
of  the  "  Semaine  Sainte,"  its  height  being  on 
Good-Friday.  This  "  Semaine  Sainte  "  is  in- 
deed a  whirl  of  excitement,  slightly  differing 
in  form,  but  not  in  nature,  from  the  usual  Paris 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  191 

dissipation.  Every  day  there  is  the  perfection 
of  church -music  and  church -oratory  in  the 
morning,  and  balls,  operas,  and  theatres  in  the 
evening — and  on  Good-Friday  especially  there 
is  first  High  Mass,  last  a  Benedicite — and  Long- 
champs,  between.  This  name  is  derived  from 
a  habit  of  the  Paris  beau  monde,  of  a  century 
or  so  ago,  of  repairing  to  a  little  chapel  of  that 
name  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  to  perform  their 
devotions.  These  devotions  now  consist  in  a 
continual  promenade  up  and  down  the  Champs 
Elysees  in  full  dress,  exhibiting  new  fashions 
and  superb  equipages.  The  worship  contin- 
ues, but  it  is  transferred  from  God  to  Mam- 
mon. 

The  weather  was  beautiful;  under  the  splen- 
did sun  and  warm  air  the  chestnut-trees  rushed 
into  preternatural  bud  and  leaf,  and  all  Paris 
swarmed  over  the  sunny  asphalt  like  so  many 
spring  butterflies.  On  each  of  these  three 
days,  at  four  o'clock,  a  stream  of  carriages  be- 
gins to  roll  along  the  wide  thoroughfare  of  the 
Champs  Elysees;  on  the  side  are  pedestrians, 
chiefly  consisting  of  eye-glassed,  bearded,  and 
mustached  men  of  all  nations;  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  walk  stand  chairs  for  the  more  de- 
termined and  indolent  flaneurs  in  the  broad 
sunshine  between  the  two  torrents  of  foot-pas- 


193  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

sengers^and  carriages.  In  those  dazzling  car- 
riages are  high-dressed  women,  glittering  like 
rainbows ;  between  them  caracole  young  men 
on  horseback. 

There  among  the  pedestrians  goes  an  Italian 
prince  whom  we  know,  walking  in  his  usual 
style,  his  lorgnon  in  his  eye,  his  chin  supported 
by  his  stick  held  upright,  his  looks  fixed  on 
the  skies  in  solemn  vacancy.  He  neither  sees 
nor  wishes  to  see  any  one,  for  he  comes  from 
his  usual  afternoon  visit  to  a  French  lady 
whom  he  admires;  and  one  can  judge  by  his 
air  of  solemn  beatitude  or  listless  gloom  wheth- 
er he  has  been  admitted  or  not.  In  the  pres- 
ent case  he  is  evidently  unwilling  to  efface  the 
image  in  his  mind  by  the  sight  of  any  meaner 
mortal. 

Soon  we  fall  in  with  a  pale,  light -haired 
young  Englishman,  somewhat  a  man  of  fash- 
ion, with  an  air  half  slangy,  half  military,  who 
has  lately  broken  a  few  bones  in  a  steeple- 
chase, and  who,  while  waiting  for  his  horse  to 
join  the  sublime  procession,  condescends  in  a 
light  quizzing  tone  to  point  out  to  us  some  of 
the  most  distinguished  belles  in  the  carriages. 
These  we  'find  (for  the  Second  Empire  has 
introduced  many  novelties  in  the  way  of  les 
moeurs)  are  for  the  most  part  actresses  of  the 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  193 

Palais  Eoyal  and  such -like  dashing  dames, 
and,  I  must  own,  they  looked  their  character. 
There  in  that  low,  light  coupe,  cushioned  in  its 
rich  silk  lining,  thrown  back  on  soft  cushions, 
look  at  that  young,  graceful  form,  the  rainbow 
parasol  over  the  fairy  bonnet,  the  face,  of  which 
one  catches  a  side-view,  dazzlingly  handsome, 
with  its  strongly  crepe  bands  of  black  hair,  its 
carmine  brilliancy,  and  those  dark  eyes,  with 
their  sidelong,  subtle,  languishing  glance,  and 
lurking  shut-up  smile,  and  that  mouth  with  its 
small,  full,  lovely  lips.  She  sparkles  all  over 
with  esprit,  espilghrie,  suppressed  indications 
of  angry  passions,  all  armed  in  a  bold,  triumph- 
ant, scornful  grace;  or  she  wears  perhaps  a 
mask  of  demure  reserve.  But  the  hard,  bold 
forehead,  whence  all  the  freshness  of  youth 
has  been  rubbed  off,  tells  a  truer  tale.  There 
was  much  food  for  compassionate  melancholy 
in  all  this. 

Our  informant,  perceiving  his  horse  at  last 
awaiting  him,  mounted,  beginning  to  light  and 
smoke  his  cigar  before  he  had  left  us,  which 
caused  Sibyl  involuntarily  to  exclaim,  "  What 
a  snob !"  The  rest  of  the  time  we  were  joined 
by  M.  Emile,  whose  refined  and  clever  conver- 
sation quite  drew  away  my  attention  from  the 
restless,  yet  monotonous  scene  before  us.  He 
N 


194  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

began  by  telling  us  that  bis  official  duties  re- 
quired from  him  every  four  weeks  an  attend- 
ance which  kept  him  a  close  prisoner.  "In 
truth,  I  am  at  the  mercy  of  the  changes  of  the 
moon." 

"It  is  the  type  of  your  nation,"  said  I. 

"  Comme  Mademoiselle  Beatrice  nous  fait  la 
guerre !"  he  answered,  with  a  smile  of  entire 
pleasure. 

We  talked  a  little  of  the  passing  scene, 
we  compared  French  and  English  beauty,  we 
agreed  as  to  the  metallic  clearness  and  sharp- 
ness of  the  French  physiognomy,  "des  traits 
delicats  et  durs,  comme  leur  caractere."  In  a 
mild  denigrant  tone  he  criticised  the  prominent 
foibles  of  his  countrywomen.  "Nevertheless," 
he  said,  "  French  women  have  more  heart  than 
French  men.  Some — perhaps  the  majority — 
have  none  at  all ;  but  those  who  have  never 
love  by  halves.  The  result,"  he  added,  in 
lower  and  graver  tones,  "is  almost  always  de- 
plorable." 

Then  he  turned  as  from  a  painful  theme  to 
the  more  welcome  one  of  English  women,  who 
were  contrasted  on  the  same  points  with  the 
French.  First  came  their  droiture  of  expres- 
sion, the  naivete  of  their  manners  and  conver- 
sation.    It  is,  true,  this  droiture  often  puzzles, 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  195 

*and  this  naivete  amuses ;  but  in  his  heart,  phi- 
losopher or  no,  the  Frenchman  considers  la  co- 
quetterie  a  necessary  feminine  attribute,  and  the 
English  simplicity  and  earnestness  please  him, 
as  a  fresher,  and  therefore  more  piquant,  form 
of  that  coquetterie  (I  do  not  attempt  to  trans- 
late the  word,  for  "coquetry"  no  way  repre- 
sents it).  Then,  warming  into  poetic  feeling, 
M.  Emile  dwelt  on  the  intellectual  affection,  the 
elevated  purity,  and  the  serene  calm  of  us  En- 
glishwomen, adding,  "It  is  angelic,  as  your 
fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,"  turning,  as  he  spoke, 
to  Sibyl,  who  certainly  corresponded  to  his 
picture,  but  who  only  laughed  at  his  idealizing 
eloquence. 

It  is  the  truth,  as  I  believe,  that  most  of  this 
fine  ideal  was  drawn  from  the  fact  that  we 
abused  the  present  ruler,  took  in  "L'Avenir 
du  Peuple  "  (a  Eepublican  journal  quickly  suf- 
focated), and  knew  two  or  three  languages; 
that  was  enough  for  a  clever  sentimental 
French  generalizer. 

In  spite  of  ourselves,  our  talk  wandered  to 
deeper  and  sadder  topics,  and  I  saw,  with  pity, 
yet  with  pleasure,  that  our  friend  felt,  as  a 
high-minded  man  must  feel,  what  I  hesitated 
to  call  the  political  and  social  degradation  of 
his  nation.  *  His  face  changed,  his  voice  sank 


196  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  deepened  as  he  uttered  a  few  bitter, 
broken  sentences.  By  way  of  excuse,  I  said, 
"  I  can  not  imagine  how  a  brave  and  proud 
nation  like- yours  could  submit  to  such  abase- 
ment." 

"  There  is  the  misfortune,"  he  answered ; 
"we  have  not  pride  enough.  We  are  not 
proud,  we  are  vain  ;  and  there  is  a  vast  differ- 
ence between  these  two  qualities." 

Sibyl  gravely,  but  rather  maliciously,  told 
him  of  an  engraving  she  had  that  day  seen  in 
a  print-shop,  entitled,  "La  Clemence  du  Pre- 
sident," illustrating  an  incident  at  a  review 
the  day  before.  It  represented  a  young  lady 
kneeling  to  Louis  Napoleon,  with  a  petition 
for  her  condemned  brother;  he  bows  stiffly, 
and  —  hands  the  petition  over  to  an  aid-de- 
camp !  M.  Emile  was  silent  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  muttered,  "  What  an  abomination !  I 
should  like  to  make  sure  of  it." 

One  was,  indeed,  disposed  to  wonder  at  the 
slough  of  humiliation  (and  no  one  who  was  not 
then  in  Paris  can  tell  how  deep  it  was)  through 
which  a  fiery  and  powerful  nation  had  permit- 
ted itself  to  be  dragged,  to  repose  at  last  under 
the  heel  of  an  armed  tyranny.  But  day  by 
day  we  received  sad  proofs  of  so  vast  a  want 
of  pure  public  feeling,  especially  in  the  public 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  197 

men,  that  one  was  at  last  obliged  to  cease  won- 
dering. Nevertheless,  one  can  not  quite  de- 
spair for  France  when  there  are  yet  such  men 
as  Emile  in  it  —  men  whose  warm  heart  and 
vivid  imagination  unite  with  a  clear  head  and 
straightforward  sense  of  duty.  Perhaps  one 
regrets  that  these  men  have  not  protested  still 
more  by  acts ;  but  I  do  not  know  the  difficul- 
ties, and  can  not  judge.  I  do  know  those  who 
have  quietly  barred  forever  all  advance  in  their 
professional  career  by  a  vote  against  the  Coup 
d'Etat;  others  who,  in  a  public  chair,  when  the 
Empire  had  just  set  down  its  triumphant  foot, 
distinctly  renewed  their  confession  of  faith; 
and  others,  who  abandoned  their  sole  means  of 
livelihood  rather  than  condescend  even  to  an 
acquiescent  silence,  and  went  forth  impover- 
ished exiles  to  foreign  lands. 

In  spite,  then,  of  a  general  want  of  moral 
courage,  a  too  exclusive  devotion  to  gain,  and 
to  that  order  and  tranquillity  which  insures 
gain,  a  blase  indifference,  as  of  men  just  recov- 
ered from  a  fever-fit,  to  the  abused  terms  of 
law  and  liberty,  whence  sprang,  I  suppose, 
that  "  Oui "  of  seven  millions — in  spite  of  all,  I 
would  fain  do  justice  to  the  saving  trait  of  the 
French  character  —  a  chivalry  of  feeling  re- 
sulting from  that  exquisite  sensibility  which 


198  TWENTY  YEAMS  AGO. 

makes  their  souls  respond,  like  a  finely-strung 
instrument,  to  every  beautiful  touch;  this  gives 
a  captivating  charm  to  their  generosity,  a  ro- 
mance to  their  friendship,  a  touching  sweet- 
ness to  their  love. 

Thus  we  conversed — with  only  occasional 
interludes,  such  as  a  piece  of  rudeness  from  a 
French  lady,  who  refused  to  move  an  inch  to 
relieve  Sibyl  from  a  painful  pressure,  where- 
on we  were  warned  never  to  ask  a  favor  of  a 
French  lady  in  a  public  place — till  we  went 
home,  and  Emile  took  leave  of  us  to  begin  his 
week  of  invisibility,  adding,  in  pathetic  tones, 
"Pity  the  poor  prisoner." 

And  so,  I  reflected,  on  quitting  Longchamps, 
to  be  where  the  monde  congregates,  to  exhibit 
new  dresses  and  criticise  one's  neighbors,  to 
lounge  for  hours  together  on  a  fine  day  in  the 
open  air,  perfectly  idle,  eyes  and  tongue  in  full 
play,  amidst  dust,  heat,  and  enormous  noise — 
this  is  life  for  a  Parisian.  We,  being  there  in 
the  character  of  philosophical  observers,  were 
not  open  to  our  own  criticism. 

This  being,  however,  nearly  all  the  philoso- 
phy I  could  extract  from  this  famous  scene,  I 
went  to  a  very  different  one — vespers  in  No- 
tre-Dame ;  one  of  those  scenes-  where  the  Eo- 
man  Catholic  religion  wooes  us  through  heart 


PARIS  IN  APRIL.  199 

and  senses  with  every  devotional  luxury.  The 
organ,  out  of  which  seas  of  triumphant  music 
rolled,  then  died  suddenly,  that  one  lovely  ten- 
or might  fill  the  silence  and  make  all  forgot- 
ten save  itself,  then  joined  in  again,  with  gasp- 
ing fragments  and  tremulous  sighs,  till  all  ran, 
twisted,  melted  together  into  one  cry  of  rap- 
ture; tfye  vision  of  fifty  white -robed  female 
forms  gliding  all  round  the  church,  behind  the 
Virgin's  silken  banner,  like  a  dream  of  nuns; 
the  procession  of  the  Host,  with  its  tall  tapers 
and  its  tinkling  bell ;  then  the  picture  of  the 
rich  altar,  flower-garlanded  and  forested  with  a 
hundred  lights,  and  on  the  altar-steps  all  those 
priestly  forms  then  knelt,  as  in  a  picture,  in 
robes  of  black  and  white  and  gold  -  embroid- 
ered crimson,  the  only  movement  being  the 
censer  swung  now  and  then  slowly  on  high, 
and  filling  the  church  with  clouds  of  rich  per- 
fume. The  delicious  choral  singing,  that  in- 
spired me  with  profound  sadness  like  the  pro- 
longed prayer  of  the  despairing,  ever  more 
and  more  earnest,  and  ever  in  vain !  Then 
the  deepening  twilight,  in  which  all  seemed  to 
float  off  into  air  ;  then  one  grand  crash  of  mu- 
sic, at  which  the  procession  swept  out  by  a 
£ide-door,  the  altar -lights  were  extinguished, 
and  half  the  church  left  in  a  divine  darkness. 


200  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

We  went  home;  and  I  could  but  hope  that 
the  worshippers  believed  in  it  all,  and  that 
each  movement,  each  genuflexion,  each  lifting 
of  the  Host,  was  to  them  a  sacred  act.  To  me, 
who  believe  in  a  spiritual,  not  a  material  De- 
ity, the  whole  appeared  theatrical  and  pagan, 
in  spite  of  an  effect  that  I  could  not  but  feel, 
of  which  half  was  upon  the  senses,  half  upon 
the  imaginative  emotions. 


THE  LUXEMBOURG.  201 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   LUXEMBOURG  AND   THE   CONCIERGERIE. 

I  HAVE  already  mentioned  the  Comte  de 
T ,  one  of  Sibyl's  most  frequent  visit- 
ors, though  his  projected  marriage  with  Her- 
mine,  it  was  expected,  would  soon  take  place. 
Of  the  latter  lady  and  her  mother  I  have  said 
little,  because  we  saw  little.  Their  circle  of  so- 
ciety was  very  different  from  ours  ;  their  days 
were  spent  in  the  grand  monde  and  in  the  in- 
cessant exertions  of  what  is  called  pleasure. 
For  this  sort  of  life  Sibyl  had  neither  health 
nor  inclination ;  she  loved  to  be  amused,  but 
in  a  quiet  way,  and  preferred  a  small  circle  of 
chosen  and  agreeable  friends  to  indiscriminate 
gayety  on  a  large  scale. 

This  easy  mode  of  intercourse  seemed  very 
agreeable,  too,  to  many  of  her  acquaintances, 

among  others  to  the  Comte  de  T ,  whose 

intimacy  permitted  him  to  pursue  it  without 
(I  suppose)  endangering  his  interests  with 
Hermine,  who  on  her  part  seemed  perfectly 
content  with  his  business-like  courtship  of 
herself. 


9Qa  TWENTY  YEAltS  AGO. 

He  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  last  of  the  good 
talkers  of  Paris,  and  certainly  is  an  excellent 
specimen  of  the  manners  of  the  old  school. 
He  has  not  even  "fine"  manners — they  are  too 
calm  and  unobtrusive  for  that;  he  is  only 
very  agreeable ;  rather  plain,  with  a  quiet  arch 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  a  voice  of  the  laziest 
enjoyment.  One  afternoon  he  came  to  us, 
bringing  two  bunches  of  roses  and  a  proposal 
of  a  visit  to  the  Luxembourg  gardens — and 
the  lilacs  there  —  and  the  Conciergerie.  It 
was  rather  before  the  time  of  lilac-blossom ;  but 
perhaps,  with    an    aristocratical  magnificence 

worthy  of  Louis   XIV. 's   time,  M.  de   T 

thought  he  could  control  nature  by  way  of  a 
galanterie  to  ces  dames,  and  so  it  was  arranged. 
Hermine  was  included  in  the  party,  and  he 
was  content  and  I  very  much  amused. 

Sibyl  was  not  over-well  that  day,  and  Her- 
mine, for  some  reason,  slightly  out  of  humor, 
but  neither  difficulty  could  interrupt  the  even 

and  happy  flow  of  M.  de  T 's  spirits  nor 

stop  his  conversation,  which  he  dealt  out  pret- 
ty equally  to  all  three.  His  "hommage  aux 
dames,"  which  is  expressed  in  pleasantry  tem- 
pered by  respect,  is  of  a  thorough,  genuine, 
unremitted  kind,  unlike  that  of  many  modern 
young  men,  an  effort  of  flirtation  with  one  in- 


THE  LUXEMBOURG.  203 

dividual,  or  for  a  single  soiree;  his  devotion 
extended  to  all  women,  and  lasted  all  his  life. 

We  arrived  at  the  Conciergerie,  and  the 
greffier  showed  us  over  it.     To  my  surprise, 

M.  de  T had  never  had  the  curiosity  to 

visit  it  before,  and  scarcely  even  knew  the 
present  use  of  it,  which  is  for  the  detention  of 
those  awaiting  trial.  These  gay  grands  seign- 
eurs have  a  very  narrow  world  of  interest ; 

still  it  surprised  me  in  M.  de  T ,  because 

he  is  supposed  to  be  an  intense  Legitimist; 
however,  I  don't  think  he  troubles  himself 
much  who  rules  in  Paris,  or  honors  Louis  Na- 
poleon with  more  than  a  quiet  joke  or  a  little 
domestic  scandal. 

We  entered  by  that  gloomy  old  archway 
where  the  prisoners  of  the  Terror  passed  on 
tumbrils  to  the  guillotine,  and  thence  came 
into  the  Salle,  old  as  the  time  of  Louis  IX., 
dark  and  cold,  the  ceiling  supported  by  im- 
mense massive  ribs,  the  walls  of  mediaeval 
strength  and  thickness.  Then  we  went  into 
the  cell  of  Marie  Antoinette,  a  spot  which 
touched  me  profoundly,  and  impressed   even 

M.  de  T with  the   solemn   feeling  of  its 

melancholy  and,  for  him,  humiliating  associa- 
tions. 

The  room  has  been  much  altered ;  but  low, 


204  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

dark,  dreary  it  still  is,  only  twelve  feet  by  ten, 
yet  curtained  off  into  two  divisions,  one  of 
which  just  held  the  poor  queen's  bed ;  the  oth- 
er contained  her  guards,  who  never  quitted  her 
day  or  night,  or  lost  sight  of  her,  save  at  her 
toilet.  A  sorrowful  picture  at  the  end  shows 
us  the  poor  forlorn  woman,  who  has  ceased  to 
struggle,  ceased  almost  to  feel,  perhaps  even 
to  pray,  sitting  on  her  low  pallet  just  beneath 
the  small  iron-barred  hole  high  in  the  wall, 
which  supplied  the  place  of  a  window.  Two 
more  pictures  represent  the  parting  with  her 
friends  and  the  last  confession.  An  altar  has 
been   raised  with  a   monumental  inscription, 

which  M.  de  T read  through  with  silent 

devotion ;  on  it  stands  the  crucifix  which 
Marie  Antoinette  always  used.  It  is  easy, 
and  in  some  sense  just,  to  talk  of  the  crimes 
and  follies  of  the  old  regime  and  the  necessity 
of  destroying  it,  of  the  righteous  vengeance 
of  an  oppressed  people,  and  the  glorious  fruit 
of  the  great  Kevolution,  and  easy  to  say  that 
the  sufferings  of  a  queen  are  not  to  be  pitied 
more  than  those  of  a  working-woman ;  but 
human  nature,  while  not  hardened,  has  in  it 
sympathetic  emotions  which  will  be  touched 
more  keenly  in  proportion  as  the  individual 
case  of  suffering  is  brought  more  vividly  be- 


THE  LUXEMBOURG.  205 

fore  us,  and  will  feel  how  that  suffering  is  en- 
hanced by  a  sense  of  sudden  and  utter  fall.  It 
will,  too,  distinguish  between  the  guilt  of  those 
who  were  but  what  they  were  born  to,  neces- 
sarily unable  to  shake  off  the  prejudices  they 
had  been  cradled  in,  and  all  unknowing  how 
to  meet  the  new,  strange  circumstances,  a 
world  in  chaos,  wildly  raging  against  them, 
and  those  deliberate  malefactors  who,  for  their 
own  selfish  purposes,  turn  disorder  into  car- 
nage and  slavery.  Nor  will  the  calmer  judg- 
ment— in  the  long,  unnecessary  system  of  ig- 
noble persecution  and  horrible  vengeance  in- 
flicted on  powerless  victims — see  any  thing  to 
the  credit  of  the  heroes  of  the  Eevolution  and 
their  loudly  proclaimed  principles  of  freedom, 
patriotism,  and  brotherhood. 

Sibyl,  who  had  vainly  struggled  against  ill- 
ness all  day,  became  so  faint  that  we  were 
obliged  to  leave  the  place  and  seek  fresh  air. 
The  lively  greffier  asked  "  if  the  impressions  of 
the  place  were  too  much  for  madame,"  saying 
that  this  often  happened  when  people  visited 
it  for  the  first  time.  As  we  passed  out,  we 
took  a  look  at  the  room  where  criminals  sen- 
tenced to  death  were  placed  the  night  before 
their  execution.  Oh  me!  it  was  a  dreadful 
place !   so   stony   cold,  so   black,  so   pitilessly 


206  TWENTY  YEAttS  AGO. 

strong,  so  utterly  forlorn  !     Even  M.  de  T 

shuddered,  and  said  it  was  "  assombrissant." 

Then  to  the  Luxembourg  gardens,  where 
we  all  strolled  up  and  down  the  terrace,  nowr 
shady  with  trees,  sat  on  a  bench  beneath  them, 
looked  at  the  lilac-trees  (the  blossoms  were  so 
disobliging  as  to  remain  yet  buds),  and  enjoy- 
ed the  smiling,  shining  day.  But  certainly  it 
did  not  much  signify  where  we  were  or  what 
we  saw ;  for  M.  le  Comte  came  there  evident- 
ly to  talk  and  fascinate  us,  not  to  let  us  see 
any  thing.  He  pointed  to  the  Hall  of  the 
Luxembourg,  and  gave  us  his  reminiscences 
of  the  conflicts  of  June  in  '48,  all  in  such  a 
genuine  Faubourg  St.  Germain  manner  that  I 
had  a  double  enjoyment. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  we  had  to  sleep  all  night 
on  beds  of  straw.  I  was  one  of  the  National 
Guard,  and  was  called  out  with  about  a  hun- 
dred more  to  protect  the  palace  from  the  insur- 
gents. It  was  on  the  fourth  night,  and  there 
was  still  a  dense  mass  roaring  all  round,  from 
the  Panthdon  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  We 
heard  cannonading  and  musketry  going  on  all 
night,  and  knew,  though  it  was  too  dark  to 
see,  that  there  was  a  ferocious  multitude  out- 
side thirsting  for  our  blood,  who  might  massa- 
cre us  in  the  dark,  before  we  could  even  see 


THE  LUXEMBOURG.  207 

them :  it  was  not  a  pleasant  idea."  But  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  much  more,  and  dwelt 
with  much  greater  sensibility  on  the  personal 
discomforts  than  on  the  horrors  and  dangers 
of  that  bivouac-night. 

"At  last,"  said  he,  "at  about  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  we  were  called  out  on  a  sud- 
den alarm — the  insurgents  were  going  to  at- 
tack us.  We  were  hurried  out  into  the  court, 
formed  hastily,  ordered  to  load ;  as  for  me,  I 
knew  nothing  about  that  business,  and  I  don't 
believe  many  of  my  companions  did,  although 
some  of  them  had  been  twenty  years  in  the 
National  Guard.  I  found  myself,  therefore, 
much  embarrassed  by  the  order  to  load  with 
cartridge.  I  turned  to  my  next  neighbor,  and 
asked  if  by  any  chance  he  knew  how  to  load. 
'  Yes,7  said  he.  '  Then  will  you  be  so  obliging 
as  to  load  mine  for  me  V  i  With  the  greatest 
pleasure,7  he  replied.  And  oh  how  relieved  I 
was!  But  no  doubt  we  were  more  dangerous 
to  our  friends  than  to  our  enemies.  There  we 
stood  drawn  up  in  the  dark,  on  a  cold,  wet 
night,  no  moon,  no  lamps,  nothing  but  the  pale 
stars  overhead,  expecting  every  instant  to  en- 
gage. But  after  some  hours7  waiting  we  were 
told  that  the  barricade  was  taken,  and  that  we 
were  no  longer  required.     We  were  very  glad 


308  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

to  get  home,  putting,  no  doubt,  the  just  value 
on  our  services." 

He  then  described  the  aspect  of  Paris  when 
he  walked  out  next  morning,  the  boulevards 
a  perfect  solitude,  the  houses  in  ruins,  in  some 
of  the  more  distant  streets,  where  the  righting 
had  been  fiercest,  the  blood  flowing  like  water. 
He  described  the  furious  passions  of  both  par- 
ties, the  horrid,  demoniac  aspect  of  the  insur- 
gents, the  remorseless  rage  of  those  who  got 
the  better,  in  which  all  justice,  all  generosity, 
all  pity,  seemed  flung  to  the  winds.  "  Never- 
theless," said  he,  "I  believe  I  was  the  chief 
means  of  saving  one  man's  life.  He  had  fired 
at  an  officer  of  the  National  Guard  and  wound- 
ed his  man ;  he  was  instantly  seized,  dragged 
into  the  Luxembourg  gardens,  and  numberless 
furious  voices  demanded  his  instant  death.  I 
put  up  my  lorgnon  and  was  interested  by  his- 
appearance.  He  was  a  very  tall  young  man, 
with  a  mass  of  waving  hair,  black  beard  and 
mustache,  and  a  pale,  stern,  determined  face ; 
he  was  not  an  ouvrier;  he  wore  a  black  coat, 
very  threadbare,  and  shabby  trowsers ;  he  was 
probably  an  artist  of  enthusiastic  Eepublican 
principles.  I  thought  it  a  pity  that  he  should 
be  killed,  and  I  made  them  a  speech.  I  told 
them  that  they  were  now  excited  ;  that  what 


THE  LUXEMBOURG.  209 

they  felt  now  they  would  not  feel  a  month,  a 
week,  a  day  hence ;  that  it  was  a  shocking 
thing  to  kill  a  man  in  a  state  of  excitement, 
which  resembled  intoxication,  and  left  no  time 
for  the  operation  of  reason ;  that,  after  all,  he 
had  not  committed  murder,  that  he  had  only 
wounded  a  man,  and  that  death  was  too  dread- 
ful a  penalty  for  this.  Bnfin  que  sais-je?  J'ai 
dit  tant  de  belles  choses.  About  half  a  dozen 
persons  agreed  with  me,  and  joined  in  trying 
to  save  the  man ;  the  passions  of  the  others 
then  turned  against  us,  and  we  were  for  a 
while  in  some  danger.  Meanwhile  the  young 
man  stood  in  the  midst,  towering  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  rest,  and  looking  down  on 
us  with  calm  indifference,  as  if  all  this  was  not 
his  affair  at  all.  At  last  we  got  him  into  an- 
other room,  where  we  locked  him  up,  and  by 
this  respite  finally  saved  Bim.  I  believe  he 
was  afterwards  tried,  but  certainly  not  put  to 
death — probably  transported." 

Having  told  all  this  little  episode  (which  by- 
the-bye  did  him  much  credit)  in  a  well-bred, 

indifferent  way,  M.  de  T ,  in  precisely  the 

same  manner,  glided  into  his  favorite  quiet 
badinage,  chiefly  addressed  to  Mademoiselle 
Beatrice  as  the  etrang&e,  mixed  with  disserta- 
tions on  love  and  matrimony  as  practiced  in 


210  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

England  and  France.  Having  put  down  two 
of  the  ladies  at  their  own  door,  he  accompanied 
the  third  to  a  house  some  way  farther  on,  po- 
litely observing  that  he  only  wished  it  was  far- 
ther still,  and  proposing  first  to  take  a  turn  or 
two  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  which,  as  it  was 
then  "most  gayly  crowded  and  we  were  in  a 
common  fiacre,  was  a  courageous  proposition 
on  the  part  of  M.  le  Comte,  and  such  as  would 
scarcely  have  been  made  by  an  English  man 
of  fashion.  The  young  lady,  doubting  how  far 
the  public  promenade  in  the  cab  with  a  grand 
seigneur  would  please  les  marnrs  in  a  French 
point  of  view,  declined,  and  so  ended  our  day. 


PARIS  IN  MAY.  211 


CHAPTEE  X. 

PARIS    IK    MAY. 

WE  have  now  a  succession  of  blue,  dry, 
burning  days,  which  fill  the  Champs 
Elysees  with  dust  and  gay  crowds ;  a  haze  of 
heat  rests  on  the  air,  the  bridges,  the  domes 
and  steeples  on  the  other  side.  The  fountains 
send  light  silver  clouds  into  the  turquoise  air ; 
organs,  dancing  dogs,  tumblers,  and  Punch 
abound;  the  limonadiers  go  about  with  their 
tinkling  bell,  the  lemonade  or  sherbet-making 
machine  strapped  to  their  backs  and  the  metal 
drinking  -  vessels  in  front.  The  crowds  of 
chairs  under  the  trees  are  filled  by  lounging 
newspaper  readers ;  the  little  tables  are  set  in 
front  of  the  wine-shops,  with  wine,  coffee,  lem- 
onade, and  ginger-beer  thereon. 

One  May -day  I  well  remember.  It  had 
been  sunny,  hot,  sultry,  and  we  had  kept  with- 
in doors,  purposing  to  pay  a  quiet,  pleasant 
evening  visit  at  the  end,  and  finish  with  a 
moonlight  stroll  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
But  the  still,  glaring  day  gave  signs  of  ending 
in  storm  ;    the  hot  sky  drew  over  itself  a  veil 


212  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

of  thick  gray  cloud,  then  came  slowly  down 
great,  ponderous,  silent  drops  of  rain.  I  look- 
ed into  the  court,  which  began  to  wake  up  to 
its  evening  life ;  it  was  a  large  and  handsome 
quadrangle  inclosed  by  regular  buildings. 
On  the  side  opposite  us  the  rez-de-chaussee  con- 
sisted of  stables  and  coach-houses  ;  above  were 
the  low,  wide,  entresol  windows ;  then  three 
stages  of  handsome  appartements,  and  the  attic 
windows  at  the  top  with  flower-pots  on  the 
ledges,  and  canary-cages,  covered  each  with  a 
cool  green  leaf  from  the  sun.  All  the  neat 
white  persiennes  are  flung  back  and  the 
windows  open ;  sounds  of  life  are  constantly 
heard.  On  the  rez-de-chaussee,  in  one  part  bill- 
iards have  been  going  on  for  hours ;  some- 
times musical  bells  or  glasses  tinkle  their  pret- 
ty tunes.  Towards  the  evening,  screaming 
voices,  laughter,  and  singing  announce  revels 
of  no  refined  sort  as  going  on  on  the  lower 
story ;  while  in  the  handsome  rooms  above,  the 
folding  windows  thrown  wide  open  display  a 
cheerful  blaze  of  lamps  and  a  bright  little  par- 
ty clustered  at  dinner. 

Yes,  in  this  house,  as  in  all  others,  the  hu- 
man history,  chapter  by  chapter,  is  being  read, 
low  or  loud,  listened  to  or  not,  as  it  may  be. 
All  are  strangers  to  each  other,  and  yet  here 


PARIS  Itf  MA  Y.  213 

and  there  stray  words  of  that  history  sound 
startlingly  across  our  path.  On  the  floor  be- 
low us  resides  a  due,  of  ancient  lineage,  and  of 
overflowing  wealth ;  he  has  a  wife,  a  daughter 
by  a  first  marriage,  and  a  son  by  the  second. 
The  day  we  entered  a  domestic  fete  was  going 
on  ;  it  was  the  daughter's  wedding-day.  Her 
husband,  strange  to  say,  was  her  own  choice, 
she  being  of  age,  of  independent  mind  and  in- 
dependent fortune.  He  was  a  baron,  an  excel- 
lent young  man,  and  with  a-  good  property, 
but  the  match  was  not  splendid  enough  for  her 
haughty  father,  and  he  would  not  honor  it 
with  his  sanction  or  his  presence.  So  he  staid 
at  Eome,  where  he  has  long  resided  without 
his  wife. 

A  few,  a  very  few  carriages  assembled  in 
the  court  as  the  wedding-party  set  forth.  We 
saw  the  bride  come  forth  with  her  stepmother 
and  the  two  take  their  place  together.  The 
stepmother  looked  young  and  kind  and  good  ; 
the  bride  was  more  striking  than  pretty,  a  pale, 
calm  face,  with  an  expression  in  it  of  courage 
and  will  —  perhaps  not  unneeded.  She  was 
magnificently  dressed,  but  greatly  scandalized 
the  French  female  spectators  by  her  scarlet 
and  gold-embroidered  scarf;  she  was  at  once 
concluded  "originale."     There  was  no  splen- 


214  TWENTY  YEAliS  AGO. 

dor  of  any  kind,  and  the  wedding  was  pro- 
nounced a  "triste  affaire;"  but  I  hope  the  brave 
young  woman,  who  thus  followed  the  dictates 
of  her  heart  and  reason,  found  her  happiness  in 
that  chateau  of  hers  in  Normandy  whither  she 
was  going  to  reside  with  her  bridegroom. 

The  next  little  occurrence  that  brought  the 
ducal  family  before  us  was  a  very  peaceful 
one.  We  had,  by  word  of  mouth,  instructed 
our  clever  cuisiniere  how  to  make  a  true  En- 
glish plum-pudding ;  she  had  turned  out  one 
success,  and  was  making  another.  The  fame 
of  it  (the  spiritual  perfume,  as  it  were)  had 
spread  through  the  hotel,  and  one  morning  I 
found  in  our  kitchen  the  smart  femme  de  chain- 
bre  of  Madame  la  Duchesse,  for  whom  her  mis- 
tress had  begged  permission  to  watch  the 
growth  of  the  foreign  wonder.  We  sent  a 
portion  of  the  result  to  the  lady,  to  satisfy  her 
as  to  its  merits. 

And  now  another  kind  of  solemnity  has 
taken  place  there.  I  was  wakened  at  mid- 
night by  shriek  upon  shriek  rising  from  be- 
low ;  they  were  the  cries  of  the  duchess  over 
the  dead  body  of  her  son.  He  was  her  only 
child,  and  the  heir  of  all  that  wealth  and  that 
historic  title;  a  boy  of  nineteen,  gentle  and 
amiable,  his  mother's  darling,  and,  I  fear,  like 


PARIS  IN  MAY.  215 

most  such  high-born  darlings,  too  little  watch- 
ed or  controlled  in  the  rapid  rush  of  his  Paris- 
ian life.  He  had  become  consumptive,  and  a 
galloping  decline  had  in  a  month  brought  all 
his  bloom  of  youth  to  the  grave.  The  poor 
mother  at  the  moment  of  his  death  was  in  her 
own  room ;  on  hearing  the  news,  she  tore  her- 
self wildly  from  those  who  would  have  held 
her,  and,  leaving  a  fragment  of  her  dress  in 
their  hands,  flew  like  a  mad  woman  to  the 
corpse.  And  the  father?  He  was  at  Eome? 
he  had  not  chosen  to  come  when  recalled  on 
account  of  his  son's  illness,  and  now  they  tele- 
graphed to  him  the  news  of  death. 

Next  day,  on  descending  into  the  court  to 
go  out,  we  saw  there  the  hearse  waiting  to  be 
taken  out.  The  drap  mortuaire — a  white  one, 
to  signify  that  the  dead  was  unmarried,  with 
his  initial  "C"  embroidered  on  it — hung  all 
over  the  porte-Qpchere,  so  that  we  should  have 
had  to  lift  it  up  to  pass  out.  We  were  warned 
not  to  do  so  till  the  bier  was  removed,  or 
we  should  be  considered  ridicules.  A  priest 
prayed  kneeling  by  the  bier,  and  in  the  after- 
noon we  saw  the  funeral  procession  moving 
away ;  among  the  mourners  walking  after  the 
poor  boy's  bier  we  recognized  our  old  friend 
M.  de  Montorgueil. 


216  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

We  strolled  one  day,  a  little  before  sunset, 
into  the  Tuileries  gardens.  The  chestnut-trees, 
like  palaces  all  magnificent  with  flowers,  were 
illuminated  by  the  sun  into  so  much  shimmer- 
ing, twinkling,  green  and  gold  drapery,  while 
behind,  arch  after  arch  of  foliage  looked  like 
pieces  cut  out  of  rich  green  velvet.  The  fount- 
ain of  the  large  reservoir  in  the  middle  was  in 
fiill  play,  and  the  great  column  of  spray,  with 
its  waving  arch,  was  all  colored  from  clear  sil- 
ver into  bright  smoke.  The  drops,  as  they 
fell  off  from  the  curve,  shivered  into  sparkling- 
gems,  like  stars  struck  off  from  a  haze  of  light. 
All  the  windows  of  the  long  Tuileries  front 
were  dipped  in  fire  by  the  setting  sun. oppo- 
site, the  Arch  of  Triumph  stood  out  before  the 
orange  west  with  the  sunset  molten  on  its  fairy 
architecture,  while  the  moon  was  just  lifting  her 
foam-white  crescent  over  the  shining  curves  of 
the  Seine. 

"Let  us  go  and  call  on  Madame  Eenaud," 
said  Sibyl.  "  Aurelie  will  like  to  walk  in  the 
Tuileries  gardens  with  us,  all  the  more  that  it 
is  not  often  that  she  gets  out  without  that 
good  mother  of  hers."  Horace  (our  grave 
English  cousin,  who  was  then  with  us)  made 
no  objection,  and  we  went  to  the  Eue  d'Agues- 
seau,  where  Madame  de  Eenaud  received  us 


PARIS  IN  MA  Y.  217 

kindly,  but  told  us  poor  Aurelie  was  too  ill  to 
go  out.  She  had  been  ailing  some,  time,  she 
did  not  know  why.  At  last  Aurelie  came  in 
to  us,  but  she  was  terribly  changed.  That 
spiritless  melancholy  was  very  unlike  her  us- 
ual ready,  decided,  almost  superbly  patronizing 
manner;  and  there  was  an  increased  but  va- 
rying brilliancy  in  her  usually  pale  complex- 
ion, which  reminds  one  that  she  is,  as  I  fear, 
pulmonique.  What  ails  poor  Aurelie?  I 
know  nothing  of  her  secrets,  but  I  have  no- 
ticed lately  a  troubled  look  in  her  large  black 
eyes,  which,  joined  to  her  serious,  unyouthful 
manner,  seems  to  me — a  girl  in  my  teens — to 
tell  the  story  of  a  heart  that  has  felt  warmly 
and  suffered  much.  Horace  admires  her,  I 
know ;  they  seem  to  have  a  sort  of  silent  un- 
derstanding with  each  other,  for  he  is  too  shy 
and  too  unversed  in  French  to  enter  on  much 
conversation  ;  but  he  manages  to  talk  with  his 
eyes,  and  she,  with  her  grand,  gracious  manner, 
knows  how  .to  draw  him  out.  There  is  noth- 
ing whatever  on  her  part  but  a  sort  of  patron- 
izing kindness,  quite  consistent  with  a  heart' 
already  occupied ;  on  his,  I  suspect,  there  is 
something  more. 

Aurelie  was  at  length  induced  to  accom- 
pany us  into  the  Tuileries  gardens.     The  sun 


218  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

had  set,  and  we  sat  chiefly  on  a  retired  stone 
bench  in  the  mingled  shade  of  beech  and 
chestnut.  In  those  stately  groves  and  walks, 
now  darkening  with  twilight,  there  was  a 
sumptuous  gloom,  a  languid,  luxurious  beau- 
ty, which  defied  expression,  but  which,  if  it 
found  melancholy  in  the  heart,  was  sure  to 
deepen  it.  Sentimental  themes  were  danger- 
ous ;  so  we  tried  some  of  those  fruitful  topics 
which  form  ready  battle-fields  between  French 
and  English,  and  found  how  safe  and  pleas- 
ant those  fearful  materials  of  eternal  political 
bitterness,  those  vexed,  burning  questions  of 
statesmen,  become  when  handled  with  the 
cheerful  superficiality  of  friendly  young  men 
and  women. 

Aurelie  is  very  decided  in  the  expression  of 
her  opinions,  and  amused  me  by  her  confident 
assertions,  and  even  contradictions,  about  ways 
and  manners  in  England,  where  she  has  never 
been.  We  talked  of  what  at  that  moment  was 
almost  the  only  "  household  word  " — "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin."  She  boldly  avowed  herself  an 
advocate  of  negro  slavery,  alleging  that  all  the 
English  supposed  philanthropic  exertions  for 
its  abolition  were  simply  dictated  by  a  desire 
to  ruin  their  colonies.  But  then  she  turned 
smilingly  to  Horace,  who  was  looking  dumbl}^ 


PARIS  IN  MAY.  219 

and  dreadfully  scandalized  at  her  assertions, 
and  confessed  that  they  were  made  with  a  de- 
liberate intention  to  "faire  naitre  une  guerre" 
between  us.  I  have  observed  that  the  tone  of 
the  French  feeling  is  very  much  below  that  of 
the  English  on  this  subject  ;*  they  seem  never 
to  have  forgiven  the  revolt  of  the  blacks  in 
San  Domingo.  Toussaint  is  with  them  not  a 
hero  to  be  admired,  but  an  ignorant  barbarian 
to  be  laughed  at. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  said  Aurelie  suddenly 
to  me,  when  Sibyl  and  Horace  were  otherwise 
occupied,  "in  which  I  give  you  all  advantage; 
it  is  in  the  position  of  your  young  women  with 
regard  to  love  and  matrimony.  The  English 
marry  always  for  love,  and  not  for  money — is 
it  not  so?" 

I  did  not  like  to  disenchant  my  French  friend 
of  this  fair  belief,  or  I  might  have  answered, 
"Not  always."  But  it  happens  often  enough 
to  justify  the  theory,  that  at  any  rate  an  En- 
glishman is  supposed  to  marry  for  love;  so 
that,  even  if  he  does  select  a  lady  for  her  for- 
tune, he  pays  her  the  compliment  of  seeming 
to  seek  her  for  herself. 


*  This  was  written  before  the  civil  war  in  America,  when 
the  "  domestic  institution  "  became  suddenly  such  a  favorite 
with  the  English  press  and  "genteel"  society. 


320  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO. 

I  talked  about  the  engagement  of  a  young 
lady  of  my  acquaintance,  in  which  I  felt  ami- 
ably interested.  "  She  tells  me  M.  de  H.  loves 
her,"  I  said,  and  was  proceeding  with  some  ro- 
mantic statement,  when  Mdlle.  Aurelie  inter- 
rupted me  by  throwing  herself  back  in  her 
seat  with  a  fit  of  laughter,  as  she  exclaimed, 
"All  these  are  pretty  contes  which  nobody  be- 
lieves ;  every  body  knows  that  there  is  no 
love  whatever  in  these  sort  of  marriages.  It 
is  simply  an  affair  of  business;  Mdlle.  Ga- 
brielle  has  30,000  francs,  and  M.  de  H.  noth- 
ing— consequently  it  is  the  utmost  simplicity 
to  believe  that  the  desire  of  her  fortune  was 
not  the  predominant  feeling." 

I  was  startled,  and  betrayed  it. 

"  Nonsense !  You  must  look  on  these  things 
from  a  different  point  of  view  in  France,"  said 
Aurelie.  Then  she  went  on  to  recapitulate 
the  history  of  various  love  affairs — if  the  word 
can  be  so  used — among  our  acquaintance,  and 
described  how  more  than  one  charming  French- 
man, whom  we  knew,  was  coquetting  with 
some  charming  girl  or  other,  paying  her  de- 
voted attentions  perhaps  for  a  whole  year; 
in  love,  yes,  very  much  in  love  —  up  to  any 
amount  save  that  of  breaking  his  heart  or  of- 
fering his  hand.     And;  then,  presently  it  will 


PARIS  IN  MA  Y.  221 

be  another  young  lady,  also  lovely  and  ineligi- 
ble, till,  when  he  has  exhausted  all  the  pleas- 
ures of  this  butterfly  career,  he  makes,  calmly 
and  leisurely,  a  mercenary  match.  French- 
men generally  marry  late.  "They  love,"  as 
one  of  them  sentimentally  said  to  me,  "to 
gather  first  all  the  flowers  of  life." 

When  I  expressed  my  wonder  at  the  really 
cold  hearts  that  these  professedly  enthusiastic 
Frenchmen  must  have  to  carry  on  this  system, 
she  again  dismissed  the  remark  with  a  cool, 
contemptuous  laugh. 

"/do  not  mean  to  yield  to  it,"  she  observed 
at  length.  "  I  will  at  least  have  du  gout  for 
the  person  I  marry." 

"Taste  is  not  enough,"  ventured  I;  "you 
ought  to  love  the  man." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  she  returned,  in  a  cold, 
calm  tone,  which  I  nevertheless  fancied  much 
at  variance  with  her  expression,  "I  can  dis- 
pense with  a  grande  passion  ;  it  causes  nothing 
but  unhappiness.  I  suppose  once  in  life  such 
a  thing  is  inevitable ;  but  once  is  enough." 

"But  you  must  not  think,"  she  added,  pres- 
ently, "that  all  marriages  in  France  are  these 
cold,  mercenary  affairs.  There  are,  especially 
in  the  country,  such  things  as  matches  origin- 
ating in  an   affection  which   begins  in   youth 


:322  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  lasts  till  age.  My  own  father  and  mother 
were  instances  of  this;  they  were  Protestants 
of  the  south  of  France,  and  had  loved  each 
other  all  their  lives.  But  Paris  is  not  the 
place  in  which  to  look  for  any  thing  good." 
Then,  rising  suddenly  from  her  seat  to  resume 
our  promenade,  she  said,  in  a  brief  energetic 
tone,  "Les  hommes  de  Paris  sont  detestables." 

Horace  escorted  Mdlle.  Aurelie  home ;  and 
Sibyl  and  I,  turning  back  to  our  own  quarters, 
were  joined  by  a  friend,  a  tall'  French  artist  of 
daring  cleverness,  a  jolly,  good-humored,  sans- 
souciant  character,  with  plenty  of  amusing,  slap- 
dash conversation.  He  was  the  professed  and 
determined  adorer  of  most  of  the  agreeable 
women  he  knew,  and,  whether  successful  or 
not,  contrived  to  keep  his  spirits  up,  and  paint 
away  energetically  all  the  time.  He  was  tall 
and  vigorous  in  form,  with  keen  iron -gray  eyes 
and  a  determined  mouth.  Horace  called  him 
an  "old  file,-"  and,  with  all  his  good-humor,  I 
suspect  there  was  something  of  hard  iron,  as 
well  as  of  keen,  biting  steel,  in  him. 

Scarcely  had  we  entered  than  a  ring  at  the 
door -bell  announced  another  guest,  and  in. 
came  M.  de  Montorgueil,  with  his  precise  fig- 
ure, neat  gray  head,  silvery^  imperial,  and  thin, 
clear,  sharp  voice.     With  some  doubts  as  to 


PARIS  IN  MAY.  223 

French  proprieties,  I  introduced  our  guests  to 
each  other.  I  had  no  doubt  then  that  M.  le 
Due  (who,  by-the-bye,  is  a  professed  Kepublic- 
an)  considered  the  artist  as  too  much  canaille 
for  his  acquaintance.  Misled,  perhaps,  by  the 
introducer's  pronunciation,  M.  Madier  mistook 
the  name. 

"  Monsieur  is  the  Due  de  M ." 

"Non,  monsieur,  De  Montorgueil,"  was  the 
cold,  dry  answer,  and  not  a  word  more  did  he 
vouchsafe  him.  M.  de  Montorgueil  then  pre- 
sented me  with  a  copy  of  a  work  of  his,  which 
is  to  convert  me  to  Eomanism  and  to  his  po- 
litical dreams.  He  was  also  occupied  in  im- 
proving his  acquaintance  with  a .  fair  young 
English  friend  of  ours  whom  he  has  once  met 
at  our  house.  "Ces  vieux  grands  seigneurs," 
says  a  shrewd  old  lady  friend  of  ours,  "  passent 
la  vie  a  papillonner  autour  des  demoiselles." 
"She  is  very  spirituelle,"  he  said;  this,  from 
a  Frenchman,  means  "she  is  very  pretty." 
"Would  her  family  consider  it  a  breach  of 
etiquette  if  he  were  to  call  ?  He  did  not  know 
English  usages ;  he  referred  himself  to  us." 
He  was  assured  that  he  might  call,  which  he 
did,  inquiring  of  Horace,  whom  he  met  at  the 
door,  if  " elle"  without  any  other  distinguish- 
ing mark,  was  at  home,  and,  finding  that  she 


224  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

was  not,  and  that  they  were  just  leaving  Paris, 
conveyed  to  her  "les  adieux  du  coeur," 

After  settling  these  important  matters,  our 
patrician  visitor  departed,  and  the  artist  con- 
soled himself  by  abusing  him  in  a  hearty, 
cheerful  way.  Meanwhile,  it  was  such  a  beau- 
tiful summer  night  that  we  went  forth  once 
again  to  see  the  fairy  capital  in  its  last, 
strangest,  most  bewitching  phase.  The  artist 
walked  forth  with  us ;  he  was  in  a  would-be 
sentimental  mood,  about  as  comical  as  the 
"jolly  "  style  more  usual  to  him,  which,  as  it 
was,  broke  out  from  time  to  time.  He  rallied, 
complimented,  joked,  and  laughed  aloud;  then, 
heaving  a  huge  sigh,  would  smite  his  chest 
and  say,  "Ah,  pauvre  negre!"  and  protest  that 
he  was  "  malheureux  comme  une  pierre."  I 
suppose  one  of  his  numerous  affaires  de  coeur 
was  in  an  unprosperous  stage. 

Paris  was  changed  now  ;  where  by  day  was 
a  great  crowded  city,  all  seemed  dark  with 
forest;  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  was  marked 
only  by  its  guardian  giant  of  an  obelisk,  dim 
and  tall  in  the  centre,  while  figures  like  phan- 
toms crossed  over  its  vast  smooth  field  of  pave- 
ment turned  by  the  moonlight  to  snow.  The 
fountains  in  the  Tuileries  gardens  rose  against 
the  solid  black  marble  of  the  night  air  in  soft 


PARIS  IN  MA  T.  235 

clouds  of  magical  foam,  and  fell  again  on  each 
side  like  liquid  lace,  like  a  watery  bride- veil. 
Those  myriad  lights  in  the  great  square  began 
their  fantastic  many-figured  dance  above,  be- 
yond, and  across  each  other;  then  gathered,  as 
it  were,  and  shot  forth  along  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees  in  double  glittering  lines  that  suddenly 
seemed  to  converge  and  close  in  a  bright  point 
at  the  Arch  of  Triumph.  Along  the  .river 
glittered  a  file  of  stars,  reflected  like  a  succes- 
sion of  pillared  arches,  of  lighted-up  houses  in 
the  water,  whose  dark  -bosom  appeared  actually 
expanding  into  a  lake.  Look  still — the  banks 
appear  receding  from  each  other — the  bounds 
melt  suddenly  away  as  the  basin  of  water 
spreads.  It  is  a  moving  picture,  a  Fata  Mor- 
gana. 

The  city  grew  yet  more  joyous  as  night 
came  on,  and  now  the  cafes  chantants  came  into 
play.  These  are  small  gay  tribunes  painted 
white  and  gilded,  placed  close  to  the  cafes, 
among  the  trees,  where  public  singers  began 
early  in  the  evening,  and  sang  on  half  the 
night  long.  Strange,  sparkling  world  of  Par- 
is, where  the  voice  of  pleasure  ceases  not  day 
or  night,  and  every  thing  is  tricked  out  like  a 
pageant  or  plaything ! 

As  we  strayed  slowly  along  we  stopped  to 
*P 


226  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

listen  to  a  clear  and  powerful  warbling  poured 
out  on  the  soft  summer  night.  The  singers 
are  young  women,  aspirantes  probably  for  a 
role  at  the  opera,  and  making  themselves 
known  the  while  on  a  stage  nearer  by  many 
steps  to  their  original  position  in  life.  One  or 
two  sat  in  evening  dress  on  the  steps  of  the 
tribune,  waiting;  they  fingered  their  ringlets, 
arranged  their  ribbons,  tossed  their  bouquets, 
and  flung  side  glances  into  the  crowd,  where 
the  givers  of  these  bouquets  probably  stood. 

Soon  one  rose  to  sing;  a  girl  in  a  white  mus- 
lin dress  with  a  broad,  rose-colored  sash ;  her 
voice  was  sweet  and  well-trained,  her  face 
young  and  pretty,  and  there  was  a  smile  on 
her  lips.  Was  it  fancy,  or  that  instinct  of  dis- 
cernment that  comes  sometimes  like  an  inspira- 
tion, that  saw  in  those  violet  eyes  and  on  that 
pale,  passionate  face  deep  shadows  of  despair, 
and  wild,  wandering  lights  of  something  yet 
worse,  that  saw  the  fixed  smile  become  a  sneer 
of  scorn  at  the  world  and  at  herself,  who  each 
knew  each  other  only  too  well  ?  Perhaps  her 
thoughts  glanced  from  the  time  when,  an  in- 
nocent peasant-child,  she  ran  by  her  mottier's 
side  to  join  her  companions  at  the  Fete-Dieu, 
and,  for  the  first  time,  with  them  flung  flowers 
before  the  cure  going  to  mass,  looking  first  to 


PARIS  IN  MAY.  227 

see  how  the  others  did  it — to  the  future  day 
when  she  might  be  lounging  in  a  gay  caleche 
among  the  brilliant  groups  of  Longchamps — 
and  which  picture  would  seem  to  her  the 
wildest  illusion  ? 

But  when  she  finished,  when  the  wild,  sad 
notes  were  over,  she  sat  down,  settling  her 
dress,  and  shaking  her  flounces  with  a  vain 
and  jaunty  air,  then  glanced  a  bold  glance  at 
the  audience,  said  something  to  one  of  her 
companions,  and  smiled. 

Then  slipped  out  on  the  steps  a  lanky  lit- 
tle girl,  with  long,  bare  arms,  short  frock,  and 
springy  feet ;  she  treats  us  to  a  prematurely 
pert  and  practiced  look,  sings  saucily  a  low, 
comic  song,  and  pantomimes  at  the  audience. 
What  an  actress  she  will  be  in  time  !  I  have 
surely  seen  her  twin -sister  as  the  child -hero- 
ine of  "La  Maman  Sablonneur."  The  profits 
of  the  concern  are  made  by  the  consomma- 
tions  which  are  expected  from  those  who  have 
taken  their  seats,  and  of  which  the  tariff  is 
handed  round  to  them. 

We  walked  on  to  enjoy  one  last,  most  per- 
fect picture,  from  the  high  platform  opposite 
the  Bridge  of  Jena,  with  the  Champ  de  Mars 
below  us.  There  it  lay  at  our  feet,  a  dream- 
Paris,  an  illuminated  world,  all  bright  in  the 


228  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

darkness,  the  Seine  curling  like  a  milk-white 
serpent  between  its  dazzling  banks,  the  clus- 
ters of  lights  that  marked  out  places,  avenues, 
public  buildings,  the  bridges  like  so  many 
pathways  of  stars,  the  domes  and  spires  pierc- 
ing sombre  through  the  blue  night  air. 

I  mused,  as  we  re-entered,  on  the  chiaroscuro 
of  this  strange  Paris,  how  inextricably  bound 
with  every  one  of  its,  witcheries  was  a  sting, 
a  pang,  a  suspicion  of  something  one  shrank 
from.  Is  it  so,  then,  that  the  bright  veil  of 
this  Parisian  life  is  a  gay  curtain  so  painted 
with  joyous  scenes  and  figures  as  to  look  solid, 
but  the  moment  you  stop  to  regard  it,  in  spite 
of  its  waving  play,  you  perceive  that  it  is 
full  of  holes  and  tatters,  underneath  which  are 
darkness  and  corruption,  which  once  discover- 
ed, you  see  no  more  the  splendor,  only  the  holes 
and  tatters,  and  the  dismal  reality  behind? 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  229 


CHAPTEE  XL 

A   FRENCH  COUNTRY   HOUSE. 

IT  may  he  guessed  from  my  last  words  that 
we  were  not  very  sorry  when  the  time 
came  at  which  all  Paris  turns  out  and  spends 
in  the  country  as  much  of  its  summer  as  it  can 
resign  itself  to  wasting  in  that  way.  We,  for 
our  parts,  were  heartily  glad  to  be  out  of  the 
noise,  heat,  and  glare  of  that  excited  and  ex- 
citing world ;  but  it  did  not  suit  us  to  move 
very  far.  However,  we  forbore  to  imitate  the 
generality  of  our  friends,  who  could  not  pre- 
vail on  themselves  to  go  farther  than  the  Lac 
d'Enghien  and  Montmorenci,  and,  establishing 
themselves  in  a  colony  in  some  gay  hotel  or 
boarding-house,  lead  a  life  as  much  like  that 
of  their  dear  Paris  as  possible ;  their  exercise 
confined  to  promenades  in  the  garden  and  very 
moderate  picnics ;  their  amusements  to  dan- 
cing, singing,  and  perpetual  gossip  and  flirta- 
tion. Thus  they  spend  their  time  of  genteel 
exile,  and  hasten  gladly  back  again  when  fash- 
ion permits.  Some,  no  doubt,  there  are  who 
go  to  watering-places,  or  even  as  far  as  the 


230  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

Pyrenees,  to  the  Eaux  Chaudes,  or  Luchon,  but 
mostly  aiming  to  combine  society  and  amuse- 
ment with  health. 

No,  we  really  wished  to  bury  ourselves  in 
the  country,  and  we  did  it.  We  spent  six 
months  in  a  quiet  village  and  a  secluded  coun- 
try-house, which,  although  only  a  few  miles  be- 
yond Versailles,  was  so  little  visited  or  known 
of,  that  a  dweller  there  asked  us  how  we  came 
to  find  out  this  pays  perdu. 

The  house,  called  Les  Eosiers,  stands  in  a 
tiny  hamlet  of  the  same  name;  the  village 
proper  lies  in  the  valley  below.  Our  house, 
approached  at  the  front  by  the  small  rude 
street,  stands  on  a  height,  encircled  with  woods, 
green  prairies,  and  orchards,  where  the  eye 
steals  through  all  the  near  greenness  into 
charming  vistas  of  more  distant  rock,  or  dell, 
or  forest. 

We  enter  through  a  great  shabby  wooden 
gate  in  a  stone  wall,  amidst  the  barking  of 
dogs,  and  are  charmed  at  once  with  our  new 
domain.  We  find  ourselves  in  a  large  walled 
garden  or  court,  half  smothered  in  trees;  a 
large  unshaven  lawn  in  the  centre,  with  a 
group  of  noble  walnut-trees  on  it ;  all  around 
a  gravel  -  walk  edged  with  orange  -  trees  and 
oleanders  in  full  blossom,  the  inclosing  walls 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  231 

overgrown  with  vines  and  other  straggling 
fruit-trees ;  all  down  one  side  a  set  of  offices 
which  are  nothing  but  picturesque  rubbish,  a 
long,  low,  uneven  line  of  crumbling  stone  cot- 
tages, one  of  which  is  inhabited  by  the  garden- 
er, who  is  also  concierge,  with  his  wife  and  his 
little  son  and  daughter. 

Through  all  this  we  reach  the  house — once 
an  old  convent  of  the  Bernardines — built  all 
of  stone,  constructed  for  strength  and  warmth, 
as  one  sees  by  the  thickness  of  the  walls,  the 
solid  beams,  and  the  double  doors,  though,  in 
the  usual  French  style,  all  is  clumsily  put  to- 
gether and  ill  secured.  But  the  long,  low,  fa- 
cade of  white  stone  that  presents  itself  across 
the  waving  grass  and  walnut-boughs,  and  all 
the  green  picturesque  confusion,  how  charming 
it  is,  with  its  tiled  roof,  stained  green  and  yel- 
low with  moss;  its  wide  upper  windows  with 
their  white  persiennes;  the  ground-floor  win- 
dows, long  and  large,  with  their  great  wooden 
whitewashed  shutters  flung  back  against  the 
wall,  opening  on  the  gravel-walks,  and  the  or- 
ange-trees in  rows  !  On  the  other,  the  north 
side,  is  a  still  wilde'V,  greener  garden,  one  scene 
of  rural  confusion,  full  of  limes,  catalpas,  aca- 
cias, laburnums,  a  wilderness  of  blossoming  fo- 
liage, and  a  very  kingdom  of  song-birds.     We 


332  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

descend,  by  a  succession  of  slopes,  through 
paths  almost  hidden  in  the  thickets  of  lilac, 
syringa,  and  honey-suckle,  down  mossy  stone 
steps,  through  a  little  open  gate  in  a  low  wall 
masked  by  copses  of  Spanish  chestnut  and 
hornbeam,  till  at  last,  passing  through  a  gap 
in  a  hawthorn  hedge,  we  quit  these  romantic 
grounds,  and  find  ourselves  at  the  top  of.  an 
orchard  or  prairie,  descending  among  its  scat- 
tered fruit-trees  into  the  valley  basin  below, 
where,  across  meadow-ranges,  lies  half  seen  the 
village  with  its  tiny  river,  while  the  red,  wood- 
covered  rocks  spring  up,  a  sudden  boundary, 
on  the  other  side. 

The  orchard  is  inclosed  on  three  sides  by 
low  walls,  dividing  it  from  rich,  luxuriant, 
grassy,  flowery  prairies ;  on  the  west  an  aque- 
duct rises,  at  the  end  of  the  valley,  out  of  a 
thick  background  mass  of  forests  towards  Bue 
and  Viroflay,  with  tempting  paths  winding 
through  it,  all  delicious  for  summer  loitering. 
This  orchard  slope  will  become  dear  to  us, 
I  foresee,  with  its  thick  woods,  and  smiling 
meadows  all  ready  for  the  mower,  the  air 
echoing  with  happy  sound^  the  cuckoo's  soft 
voice  breathing  out  every  minute  from  the 
copses  around,  bees  humming  their  self-con- 
gratulations among  the  clover,  yellow  trefoil, 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  383 

large  ox-eyed  daisies,  poligulas  pink  and  blue, 
blue  salvias,  and  other  flowers  new  to  us,  which 
enamel  the  slope,  and  all  fragrant  with  the 
balmy  blossom  of  the  trees.  All  here  is  still, 
though  about  the  premises  those  shrill  French 
tongues  are  forever  going,  in  accompaniment 
to  their  cheerful  domestic  activity. 

But  for  the  house  itself,  of  which  we  have 
taken  the  rez-de-chaussee:  it  is  large,  straggling, 
and  airy,  full  of  doors  and  windows,  and  with 
numberless  rooms.  The  large  hall,  drawing- 
room,  and  dining-room  are  very  pleasant ;  the 
glass  doors  of  the  hall  and  the  large  windows 
at  each  end  of  the  drawing-room  let  us  see 
into  both  gardens  filled  with  waving  trees; 
the  stone  benches  just  outside  the  windows 
are  our  favorite  seat. 

We  took,  as  I  said,  the  rez-de-chaussee  and 
the  premier,  the  latter  containing  five  charm- 
ing bedrooms.  Our  party  consisted  of  Sibyl 
and  myself,  Sibyl's  baby-girl,  with  her  English 
nurse,  and  our  excellent  bonne,  Honorine ;  also 
of  Cousin  Horace,  who  was  to  be  a  frequent 
guest.  The  rest  of  the  house — a  cross-piece 
running  out  from  the  main  body,  and  a  hex- 
agonal conical-topped  tower  in  the  middle  — 
was  either  not  tenanted,  or  only  transiently, 
by  a  few  passing  lodgers,  or  by  the  proprietaire 


234  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  his  wife,  who  came  down  from  Paris  from 
time  to  time  to  look  after  their  affairs.  As 
for  the  society  of  this  deeply  secluded  neigh- 
borhood, there  was  a  rich  banker's  fine  house 
and  grounds  a  mile  or  so  off,  but  the  family 
were  never  there ;  there  was  a  charming  fami- 
ly of  quiet  people,  half  French,  half  Swiss,  in 
the  little  village ;  the  cure,  whose  brother  was 
the  village  tailor ;  and  a  world  of  peasantry, 
small  farmers,  almost  all  more  or  less  land-hold- 
ers, masons,  etc.  But  of  these,  though  highly 
amusing  people,  whose  various  histories  were 
a  source  of  constant  interest,  I  am  not  now 
going  to  speak.  My  present  business  is  only 
with  the  little  world  within  the  country  house. 
A  few  days  of  intense  quiet  Sibyl  and  I  en- 
joyed at  the  beginning,  when,  the  first  little 
troubles  of  installment  over,  under  the  energet- 
ic management  of  Honorine,  we  could  wander 
from  shine  to  shade  among  leaves  and  birds 
and  all  dream-like  things,  or  occupy  the  seat 
under  the  walnut-tree  at  the  top  of  the  prairie, 
with  our  feet  in  the  long  grass,  our  eyes  fixed 
on  that  little  green  bit  out  of  the  great  pas- 
toral spread  out  around  us,  our  talk  on  sad 
sweet  things  with  which  that  scene,  till  then  so 
strange,  will  henceforth  be  inextricably  inter- 
twined.    For  we  had  come  to  a  passage  in  our 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  235 

lives  which  would  necessarily  leave  bitter-sweet 
memories  through  years  to  come ;  and  yet  we 
traversed  it  half-blind,  understanding  the  pres- 
ent scarcely  better  than  the  future. 

But  Saturday  morning  brings  too  soon  our 
proprietaires  from  Paris  for  a  few  days :  we 
see  them  from  the  garden  on  their  walk  from 
the  little  cabaret  below  (uAu  Bon  Coin"), 
where  the  omnibus  stops,  then  coming  reso- 
lutely up  the  orchard  -  slope,  followed  by  a 
maid,  bag  and  baggage,  and  very  soon  the 
premises  are  resounding  for  some  hours  with 
the  thin  screaming  voice  of  the  lady,  which  at 
a  distance  is  almost  like  a  child's  treble,  and 
with  the  soft,  oily,  coaxing  under- tones  of  the 
gentleman. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Charlier  claim  to  be 
gentry,  and  to  have  fallen  from  a  better  posi- 
tion through  losses  in  one  of  the  revolutions. 
It  is  amazing  what  use  is  made  of  some  one  or 
other  of  the  revolutions  by  every  one  whose 
present  appearance  is  not  brilliant.  The  fa- 
ther of  M.  Charlier  was,  we  are  told,  one  of 
Napoleon's  generals,  and  he  himself  has  been 
in  Algeria,  and  was  connected  with  the  army 
by  some  office  in  the  commissariat,  till  some 
unfortunate  sottise,  as  we  heard  it  called,  rela- 
ting to   money  affairs,  caused  his  temporary 


236  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

confinement  and  subsequent  dismissal.  He 
did  the  unusual  thing  of  marrying  for  love  a 
first  cousin,  very  young  and  pretty ;  but  the 
love-match  has  turned  out,  it  appears,  very 
like  a  mariage  de  convenance.  The  gentleman 
is  tricky  and  lax,  the  lady  jealous  and  passion- 
ate, and  "love,"  we  are  told,  "has  traversed  so 
many  scenes  of  cold  and  hot  water  that  it  has 
ended  by  being  drowned  and  scalded  to  death" 
— in  plain  English,  she  has  thrown  numerous 
jugs  of  water  at  him,  although  her  own  con- 
duct has  not  been  beyond  suspicion.  They 
have  still  a  community  of  interests,  over  which 
they  frequently  quarrel.  Madame  is  the  sharp- 
er and  more  business-like,  and  looks  to  the 
smallest  details  with  the  keen  close  rigor  of  a 
true  Frenchwoman.  Her  husband  is  smooth 
and  civil;  his  voice  would  be  pleasing  were  it 
not  too  carefully  kept  down  to  a  soft  coaxing 
under-tone,  especially  when  addressing  young 
ladies;  and  his  smile!  it  can  be  heard  through 
his  voice ;  and  a  very  little,  as  Sibyl  observes, 
would  make  him  oilier  than  one  could  bear. 
He  promises  much,  but,  as  he  has  always  to 
refer  to  madame,  who  is  by  no  means  so  well- 
disposed,  performs  next  to  nothing.  Madame, 
who  twenty  years  ago  was  so  pretty,  is  now  a 
queer  little  round  ball,  with  a  sort  of  shabby 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  237 

coquetry  still  hanging  about  her.  She  trips 
actively  about,  singing  in  a  cracked  voice,  with 
much  would-be  childish  vivacity.  Her  face  is 
generally  pleasant  and  good-humored,  but  we 
have  reason  to  know  that  it  can  in  a  moment 
look  quite  otherwise ;  and  in  the  sprightly  in- 
fantine voice  there  is  a  sharp  intonation  which 
may  easily  rise  into  a  virago-like  scream.  Ho- 
norine,  with  the  usual  spirit  of  French  servants, 
entered  at  one  and  the  same  time  into  posses- 
sion of  her  new  premises  and  a  fierce  war  with 
madame,  even  before  the  latter  had  had  time 
to  do  any  thing  wrong.  We,  however,  take 
care  to  have  no  quarrel. 

But  the  most  objectionable  part  of  these 
people  is  the  train  of  friends,  or  lodgers  in 
their  pension  at  Paris,  male  and  female,  low 
English  or  lawless  French,  which  generally 
follows  them,  and  for  a  short  period  quite 
spoils  the  sweetness  of  our  summer  retreat. 
Forthwith  the  lawn  is  taken  possession  of,  and 
the  lovely  garden  filled  with  boisterous  talk 
and  laughter.  The  gentlemen  slink  about 
with  cigars,  in  straw  hats  and  white  linen 
coats  and  trowsers — very  cool  and  comfort- 
able, no  doubt;  their  mode  of  whiling  away  the 
bright  afternoon  is  stripping  the  cherry-trees 
without  permission,  and  drinking  brandy  and 


238  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

water.  The  ladies,  with  a  bad  Parisian  air, 
more  frequently  English  and  American  than 
French,  in  gay  dresses,  and  with  very  little 
youth  or  beauty,  saunter  about  under  their 
fine  parasols,  sometimes  sing,  and  mingle  in 
noisy  flirtation  their  bold  shrill  voices  with 
the  coarse,  deep  masculine  tones.  They  have 
tried  hard  to  make  acquaintance  with  us,  and, 
being  constantly  repulsed,  now  take  their  re- 
venge by  staring  at  us  and  into  our  rooms  as 
they  pass,  repeating  our  names  and  talking  of 
us  as  if  we  were  wild  animals.  At  six  o'clock 
they  repair  to  their  dinner  au  second,  or  in  the 
orangerie,  a  queer  bit  of  building  in  the  grounds, 
occasionally  let  to  tenants ;  after  which  they 
return  to  the  gardens,  and  sit  on  chairs  on  the 
lawn  just  under  our  windows,  all  jumbled  to- 
gether, smoking  and  talking  in  the  beautiful 
moonlight  half  the  night,  till,  to  our  great  joy, 
we  hear  a  tumultuous  interchange  of  "Bon- 
soir,  mesdames,"  and  six  or  seven  loud  En- 
glish good-nights,  and  they  stream  off  their 
separate  ways. 

After  this  deluge  of  doubtful  gentility,  it  is 
a  decided  relief  to  see  an  honest  blouse,  or  a 
woman  in  great  clattering  sabots  and  handker- 
chief-coiffure go  by,  the  gardener  or  workmen 
in  their  shirt-sleeves,  whistling  innocently,  Zoe 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.         U  /239 

the  jardiniere,  always  busy,  or  our  own  nice, 
clean,  quiet  bonne  Honorine,  in  her  pink  cot- 
ton Sunday  gown,  stopping  to  give  us  some 
confidential  asides.  I  feel  then  in  congenial 
society. 

But  I  propose  to  describe  a  day  in  this 
French  country  house  when  it  is  in  its  normal 
and  unexcited  state,  with  only  a  few  locataires 
besides  ourselves.  We,  the  only  family  who 
observe  country  hours,  have  just  finished  our 
eight  o'clock  breakfast  in  the  large,  sunny,  un- 
furnished dining-room,  and  sit  in  the  low,  wide 
window-seat,  watching  the  busy  little  world  of 
Les  Eosiers  beginning  its  summer-day  career. 
The  sun  is  shining  over  the  south  garden  or 
court ;  on  the  broad  gravel  -  walk  before  the 
house  kittens  and  puppies  are  tumbling  about 
in  full  play,  lying  in  ambush  behind  the  green 
box  of  the  biggest  orange-tree,  or  jumping  up 
to  the  stone  bench  where  Sibyl  and  I  have 
taken  up  our  work  to  enjoy  the  mignonnette- 
scented  air  and  the  brightness  all  round,  and 
the  gambols  of  dear  little  May  under  her 
nurse's  care.  The  long  row  of  stone  buildings 
on  one  side  begins  with  the  gardener's  cottage 
and  ends  in  the  basse  cour,  where  the  poultry 
run,  a  square  stone -walled  tank,  hidden  in 
trees,  the  rose-acacia  drooping  over  it  its  long 


240  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

pink -blossomed  boughs,  and  the  porte-cochere, 
a  greafcTirighpWooden  gate,  fixed  in  two  thick 
stone  props,  whose  projections  are  hollowed 
out  into  dog-kennels,  and  studded  with  that 
mysterious  assortment  of  bolts,  beams,  bars, 
and  great  clumsy  locks  that  French  mechan- 
ism delights  in.  Every  thing  is  irjsjdisrepair, 
and  betrays  the  tale  of  onT^f^rietairj^^A\&.' 
culties.  He  is  a  rash,  sanguine  man,  who,  not 
content  with  his  pension  in  Paris,  chose  five 
years  ago  to  go  and  purchase  this  place,  un- 
known to* his  shrewder  wife,  and  to  her  great 
disgust  absorb  all  the  gains  of  that  more  pros- 
perous business  in  this  unlucky  bargain. 

There  passes  out  to  the  kitchen-garden  the 
meek  little  gardener's  wife,  with  her  small  fig- 
ure and  quiet,  pensive  face.  She  seems  to  con- 
cern herself  with  nothing  but  her  duties^  and 
to  keep  apart  from  the  busy,  tattling,  quarrel- 
ling world  around.  Or  again,  with  a  great 
straw  hat  perched  on  the  top  of  her  wren-like 
figure,  she  is  on  a  ladder  gathering  orange- 
blossoms  for  that  odious  traffic  in  orange- 
flower  water  that  Madame  Charlier  delights 
in.  Then  there  is  the  gardener  in  shirt- 
sleeves and  bare  feet,  who  cries  to  the  sitters 
in  the  window,  "Prenez  garde  de  Teau,  mes- 
dames !  je  vais  arroser  les  arbres!"   and  up 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  241 

goes  one  of  two  big  pitchers,  and  down  on  a 
great  orange -tree  descends  the  splashing  cas- 
cade. Very  pretty  did  these  seventy  orange- 
trees  look,  ranged  round  in  their  boxes,  their 
bright  leaves  glittering  with  the  sun  and  the 
dripping  water. 

One  by  one,  or  in  twos,  the  various  lodgers 
appear  and  exchange  good-humored  bows  or 
bonjours  with  each  other;  but  after  that  they 
pursue  their  occupations  apart.  The  jproprie- 
taire  is  the  first  of  all  on  foot,  with  his  round, 
mustached  face,  and  features  insignificant  to 
nullity,  his  thick  neck,  and  characteristic  walk, 
as  of  a  man  with  much  to  do,  beset  with  cares 
and  perplexities,  yet  trying  to  affect  the  degage 
air  of  a  do-nothing  gentleman.  He  holds  con- 
ference with  gardener  or  master-mason,  whom 
he  can  not  pay,  or  curiously  counts  his  wall- 
fruit,  his  peaches  and  grapes  secured  in  great 
bags,  to  be  sure  that  his  various  lodgers,  to 
whom  he  is  willing  to  sell  them  at  something 
beyond  the  market  price,  have  not  secured 
them  at  a  much  cheaper  rate.  " Julie!  tu  as 
touche  mes  peches  I"  is  a  frequent  discourteous 
affirmation.  And  truly  such  an  accident  is 
not  impossible,  as  one  feels  on  beholding  that 
giddy  young  couple  who  bound  into  the  gar- 
den, Jules  and  Julie — cousins,  I  believe,  though 

Q 


343  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

it  is  difficult  to  ascertain  relationships  in  this 
free-and-easy  set — noisy,  idle,  and  frolicsome 
all  the  day  long,  chattering  their  familiar 
French,  and  seeming  as  necessary  to  each  oth- 
er as  one  of  those  black,  round,  soft  puppies 
— looking  like  lumps  of  glossy  velvet — is  to 
his  brother. 

But  Julie  has  a  new  excitement  to-day;  she 
carries  in  a  cage  a  curious  small  animal,  a  loir 
— that  is  to  say,  a  huge  species  of  dormouse, 
more  rat  or  even  squirrel  like  than  ours,  with 
large  ears,  pink  snout  and  paws,  which  lives  in 
the  trees  and  devours  fruit.  Edgar  Leonini 
has  just  caught  it,  and  given  it  to  Jules.  Ju- 
lie tells  us  about  it  in  her  French -English, 
and  the  boy  stands  by,  too  shy  to  speak  En- 
glish, but  understanding  it,  evidently,  by  his 
comments  on  what  we  say.  Presently  it  is 
offered  to  us,  declined,  and  finally  set  at  lib- 
erty. 

The  little  group  of  garden-chairs  all  round 
the  orange -tree  is  gradually  occupied  by  the 
various  tenants.  Here  is  a  gentleman  in  straw 
hat,  light  coat  and  trowsers,  smoking,  silent, 
listless,  with  languid  figure,  pale,  used-up  face, 
and  drawling  voice.  There  is  his  wife,  de- 
scribed by  Honorine  as  "  grande  et  grosse, 
comrne  la  tour  de  Baby  lone,"  an  American, 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  243 

heartily  and  honestly  vulgar,  and  so  far  su- 
perior to  her  husband,  who  moreover  neglects 
and  ill-treats  her.  Her  life  is,  I  should  think, 
a  sad  one,  and  her  only  comfort  must  be  in  tho 
little  Julie,  for  whom  she  exhibits  a  touching 
affection.  There  is  another  lady,  who,  though 
middle-aged,  has  more  than  the  remains  of  the 
rich,  almost  splendid  beauty  of  the  South ; 
while  her  sons,  two  dark,  thin,  tall  lads,  are 
heard  calling  to  each  other,  "  Edgar !"  and 
"Hugo!"  through  the  garden,  amidst  their  one 
sole,  employment  of  catching  butterflies  in  a 
net.  They  are  very  listless,  not  like  active, 
vigorous  English  boys.  Thus  all  remain  till 
they  disperse  to  their  eleven  o'clock  dejeuner. 
Every  one,  even  to  the  youngest  of  the  boys, 
takes  off  his  cap  and  bows  respectfully  as  we 
pass ;  sauvagerie  has  prevented  the  intercourse 
from  getting  beyond  this  point,  except  an  oc- 
casional chat  with  the  poor  ill-used  mother 
and  a  passing  laugh  with  Julie. 

Poor  Julie  !  I  can  not  but  feel  interested  in 
her.  Who  can  tell  what  will  be  her  grown- 
up fate?  Neglected,  wholly  uneducated,  sur- 
rounded by  evil  influences  (for  most  of  her 
elder  relations  are  by  no  means  fit  associates 
for  the  young),  she  is  still  a  child,  and  a  very 
pretty  one,  with  a  fair,  delicate,  regular  beauty; 


244  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and,  still  protected  by  childish  ignorance,  she 
goes  about  unheeded  in  that  sort  of  passive, 
calm,  almost  dreamy  reserve  which  shrouds 
the  mystery  of  a  young  girl's  being,  her  fair 
young  face  pale  with  the  heat  of  these  July 
days,  like  a  delicate  brier-rose  that  grows  faint 
and  fading  ere  half  blown,  her  fast-shooting- 
up,  slight  figure  of  twelve  years  old  still  mov- 
ing with  the  lightness  of  childhood,  her  voice 
seldom  heard  amidst  her  coarse,  grown-up  as- 
sociates, her  mind  probably  intent  on  Gamin 
(the  house-dog),  the  chat  javme,  and  birds'- 
nests,  helping  the  jardiniere  to  gather  vegeta- 
bles, or  madame  her  mother  to  prepare  the 
dinner.  She  seems  to  have  a  great  yearning 
towards  us,  and  makes  little  timid  advances, 
playing  whenever  she  can  with  baby  May, 
coming  silently  to  seat  herself,  with  an  enor- 
mous doll,  on  the  stone  seat  under  our  dress- 
ing-room window ;  and,  much  as  we  dislike 
the  parents,  we  can  not  repel  the  poor  child. 
Poor  little  Julie !  pass  ten  years,  and  where 
and  what  will  you  be  ? 

Leaving  this  now  peopled  court  for  the  quiet- 
er and  cooler  north  gardens,  as  I  pass  I  hear  a 
sound  of  singing  high  in  the  air,  and  recognize 
our  musical  gardener's  voice.  I  look  up,  and 
discern  him  perched  in  a  cherry-tree,  chanting 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  245 

loud,  in  the  innocent  lightness  of  his  spirits, 
and  greeting  me  with  a  debonnaire  "Bonjour, 
mademoiselle."  He  has  for  some  days  been 
possessed  by  a  song,  in  which  are  these  words: 

Dans  les  temps  ou  l'amour 
Fut  constant,  et  la  beaute 
Valait  la  galanterie. 

I  should  like  to  know  when  those  times  (with 
reference,  at  least,  to  the  first  clause)  were  in 
Prance  ;  to  ascertain  this  would  require  a  very 
laborious  historical  investigation. 

The  gardener's  good-humor,  by-the-bye,  is, 
like  that  of  many  of  his  nation,  a  very  fragile 
and  insecure  dependence.  We  have  already 
seen  his  wild  eyes  and  eager  manner  blaze 
into  fierceness,  not  exactly  with  us,  but  with 
Honorine,  who  certainly  has  a  peculiar  gift  of 
being  provoking  to  her  equals,  more  especially 
when  she  suspects  them  of  an  intention  to 
wrong  us. 

One  evening,  coming  back  from  some  errand 
in  the  village  at  nine  o'clock,  she  happened  to 
ring  the  gate-bell  rather  loud  and  long,  and  so 
to  rouse  this  functionary  from  his  bed.  So  he 
came  in  great  wrath,  saying,  uNe  la  sonnez 
pas  de  cette  maniere;  je  voudrais  bien  vous 
laisser  ]&  jusqu'au  matin."  After,  of  course,  a 
screaming  altercation,  Honorine  came  to  com- 


246  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

plain  to  us ;  I  suggested  that  probably  he  had 
been  waked  from  sleep.  "  Qu'est-ce  que  9a  me 
fait?"  she  said,  scornfully;  u it's  his  business; 
il  est  paye  pour  cela."  Hearing  these  words 
from  the  garden,  the  gardener  broke  in,  bawl- 
ing from  the  distance  with  angry  loquacity; 
and  then  these  two  French  spitfires  went  on 
shooting  out  their  abuse  like  discharges  of  ar- 
tillery, their  words  racing  after  each  other  as 
fast  as  they  could  go.  We  tried  to  moderate ; 
the  gardener  said,  "  It's  a  hard  thing  for  a  man 
who  has  worked  all  day  to  be  called  up  when 
he  has  just  gone  to  bed." 

"  We  have  called  you  up  sometimes,  have 
we  not?"  said  Sibyl,  in  her  gentle  tones. 

"  Oh  madame,  pour  vous  et  mademoiselle, 
volontiers ;  mais  pour  une  domestique — non  !" 

He  did  not  see  the  want  of  logic  involved  in 
the  distinction ;  and  we  let  the  affair  go,  wish- 
ing that  Honorine  were  not  one  of  those  ex- 
cellent but  dangerous  servants  who,  serving 
us  with  zpal,  take  care  that  no  one  else  shall 
do  so. 

Presently  M.  Charlier  saunters  down  to  his 
present  grand  business — a  construction,  or  new 
building,  on  the  north  side,  at  the  end  of  one 
of  the  terrace-walks,  which  is  to  contain  a  salle- 
d-manger,  a  kitchen,  and  two  bedrooms.     Why 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  247 

he  is  doing  this  it  is  difficult  to  say,  seeing  that 
he  can  hardly  let  what  he  has,  and  is  too  poor 
to  pay  his  workmen  ;  but  I  suppose  the  fever 
of  building  or  the  dream  of  speculation  has 
seized  him.  The  materials  are  furnished  by 
the  old  crumbling  stone  wall  which  ran  along 
the  upper  side  of  the  terrace — a  strange,  slov- 
enly mode  of  building,  and  one  can  hardly  fan- 
cy that  a  house  made  of  these  old  stones,  so 
roughly  put  together,  will  stand ;  but  that  is 
his  affair. 

The  first  part  of  the  process — clearing  the 
ground  for  the  new  building — presented  a  live- 
ly scene.  All  the  young  population  were  at 
work,  or  rather  at  play,  there — that  is,  doing 
the  ouvriers1  business  for  pure  amusement. 
The  three  boys — and  even  the  young  Julie — 
were  busy  digging  and  shovelling  spadefuls  of 
earth  into  the  wheelbarrow,  which  M.  Charlier 
wheeled  away.  Soon  the  wall  rose,  the  floor- 
ing was  begun,  and  some  of  the  beams  were 
already  fixed ;  and  here,  amidst  this  skeleton 
frame-work,  M.  Charlier,  in  a  gorgeous  blue 
dressing  -  gown,  generally  took  his  station. 
Passing  underneath,  we  see  his  feet  solemnly 
depending  over  our  heads  from  among  the 
beams ;  we  look  up,  and  behold  his  broad  fig- 
ure perched  there  in  profound  silence  and  im- 


248  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

mobility;  and  so  it  remains  for  half  the  day. 
One  of  the  elder  boys  is  generally  there  beside 
him,  in  the  character  of  a  deeply  interested 
amateur.  The  planks  cover  the  pathway,  and 
intercept  our  progress  down  by  the  mossy  stone 
steps  to  the  prairie ;  but  the  workmen  are  al- 
ways polite,  and  show  us  where  to  step,  en- 
couraging us  with  a  "Voila,  mademoiselle,  un 
beau  chemin  :  vous  pouvez  passer,  vous  sautez 
bien." 

One  of  the  workmen  is  Hippolyte  Langlois, 
the  young  handsome  mason,  of  whom  I  shall 
have  more  to  say,  whose  attentions  seem  so 
equally  divided  between  our  Honorine  and  the 
young,  blooming,  smiling  bonne  of  our  friends 
in  the  village.  It  is  true,  he  takes  advantage 
of  this  close  neighborhood  to  pay  many  a  visit 
to  our  kitchen-window  ;  but  then  it  is  also  true 
that,  in  the  absence  of  her  employers,  the  pret- 
ty Louise  spends  much  of  her  time  helping  her 
friend  Honorine.  So  it  is  still  an  open  ques- 
tion which  is  preferred. 

But  the  life  of  Les  Eosiers  does  not  go  on 
energetically  under  this  increasing  heat.  It  is 
one  of  those  grave,  burning  days  that  march 
flamingly,  relentlessly  by,  one  after  another, 
like  a  succession  of  Eastern  tyrants,  till  life, 
soul,  body,  seem  to  expire  under  the  weight 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  349 

of  heat  that  each  pitiless  hour  piles  upon  it. 
Our  usually  restless  neighbors  are  quiet,  most 
of  them  shut  up  during  the  burning  weather  in 
the  orangerie  like  bottled  wasps.  How  those 
builders  can  go  on  as  they  do,  carrying  long 
planks  of  newly-sawn  wood,  making  their  ham- 
mers ring  on  falling  pieces  of  stone,  shouting 
to  each  other  every  minute,  "  Leopold !  Mau- 
rice! Hippolyte!"  with  their  untiring  labor, 
and  still  more  untiring  clatter  of  talk,  is  some- 
thing unfathomable. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  Sibyl  and  I  sat  in  the 
hall,  seeking  half  a  degree  less  heat,  there  pass- 
ed by,  and  looked  in,  the  maiire -  magon,  the 
father  of  the  admired  Hippolyte,  a  broad, 
rough-looking  old  fellow,  in  the  usual  shirt 
and  blue  trowsers,  all  splashed  with  lime  and 
mortar.  He  stopped,  gave  the  usual  "  bon- 
jour,"  and  asked  whether  we  would  like  to 
buy  a  "jolie  propriete"  that  he  had  to  sell. 
We  made  some  civil  reply,  and  he  strode  into 
the  hall,  seated  himself  on  a  chair  by  us,  and, 
quite  undisconcerted  by  his  elementary  cos- 
tume, entered  into  loud  and  voluble  conversa- 
tion. The  subject  was  a  detailed  and  profuse 
eulogy  of  this  house,  to  be  had, 'with  one  "  ar- 
pent  de  terre"  and  fifteen  rooms,  for  three 
thousand  francs.     He  invited  us  to  come  and 


250  TWENTY  YEAMS  AGO. 

see  it  on  Sunday  evening,  praising  every 
thing,  and  appealing  to  me  at  every  turn  with 
"N'est-ce  pas,  mademoiselle?  vous Favez  vu  ?" 
a  broad  grin  on  his  great  red  face,  as  he  re- 
peated the  same  words  twenty  times  over,  in- 
terspersing it  all  with  "Vous  aurez  quelque 
chose  de  bien,  allez !  Madame,  je  vous  pro- 
mets  une  maison  superbe.  Je  puis  dire  que 
vous  aurez  le  corps  de  batiment  le  plus  joli  du 
monde.  Vous  aurez  tout  ce  que  vous  voudrez, 
et  9a  ne  sera  pas  une  grande  coiitance  pour 
vous."  He  then  went  on  enthusiastically  to 
describe  its  perfections — its  two  pits  and  its 
cistern,  where  water  never  lacked — how  sum- 
mer and  winter  a  gardener  close  by  would  sup- 
ply us  with  vegetables — and  ended  by  implor- 
ing us  to  go  and  see  it.  "  Mademoiselle  Hono- 
rine  ira  avec  vous,  et  vous  montrera  la  maison 
— n'est-ce  pas,  mademoiselle  ?"  turning  to  her. 
He  moved  off  to  the  hall-door  several  times, 
but  as  often  returned  to  repeat  the  same  words ; 
.  and  finally,  on  an  inquiry  of  Sibyl's  as  to  the 
progress  of  the  "  batiments  en  bas,"  he  answer- 
ed mysteriously,  "  Qa  est  commence,  madame, 
mais  9a  n'avance  pas."  And  then,  resuming 
his  chair,  but*  moving  it  confidentially  closer, 
and  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  he  con- 
tinued, UM.  Charlier  et  moi,  nous  ne  somrnes 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  251 

pas  d'accord.  Je  ne  veux  pas  continuer  de 
batir  a  ce  prix;  il  ne  me  paye  pas  assez,  et 
nous  sommes  mecontents  tous!  II  ne  me 
donne  que  trois  francs  le  jour — oui,  madame, 
rien  que  cela !  et  si  je  suis  a  la  tete  de  tous  les 
magons  comme  de  raison,  si  j'ai  a  les  trouver, 
les  faire  travailler,  leur  payer  leurs  gages,  il 
me  faut  plus.  J'attends  a  lui  parler.  Dites 
done,"  to  Zoe,  who  passed  by,  "  M.  Charlier, 
est-il  en  haut  ou  en  bas  ?"  At  last  he  fairly 
took  his  departure,  to  our  considerable  relief, 
and  Honorine  instantly  assured  us  that  she  did 
not  think  the  house  would  do  at  all,  that  all 
the  repairs  it  would  cost  would  certainly  raise 
the  rent,  and  she  suggested  our  buying  this 
place  instead  —  a  tempting  vision  to  those 
whose  hearts  yearn  after  this  quiet  loveliness, 
and  this  land  of  many  hopes  and  dreams. 

These  republican  manners  (indeed  this  so- 
cial equality  is  the  only  trace  of  republican 
liberty  left  in  France)  do  not  displease  us  at 
all,  for  the  people  are  always  civil  and  respect- 
ful to  us,  simply  as  ladies,  not  as  people  richer 
or  grander  than  themselves. 

At  length  the  cool  evening  draws  on,  and  is 
spent  variously  by  our  various  parties.  For 
myself,  on  going  down  to  the  prairie  to  seek 
for  my  sister,  I  met  M.  and  Madame  Charlies 


252  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

sauntering  arm-in-arm  :  after  years  of  quarrel- 
ling, they  occasionally  enact  the  part  of  lovers. 
They  were  both  in  high  good-humor,  especial- 
ly monsieur,  who  took  me  to  task,  and  asked 
me  why  I  did  not  run,  and  especially  why  I 
did  not  go  and  play  with  the  young  ladies  at 
the  orangeries,  who,  as  they  said,  were  very  gen- 
tilles)  and  whose  agreeable  society  would  give 
me  all  the  spirits  I  wanted.  I  made  some 
civil  excuse,  and  observed  of  one  of  them — a 
young  English  girl — that  I  should  not  have 
thought  her  English,  her  air  was  so  altogether 
French. 

"  Ah !  to  be  French  is  what  every  one  aims 
at,"  replied  M.  Charlier;  and  then,  supposing 
me  to  share  in  this  universal  passion,  he  add- 
ed, "You,  too,  mademoiselle,  might  have  a 
French  air  if  you  would ;  but  the  way  to  ac- 
quire it  is  to  have  abandon,  not  to  think  of 
your  dignity,  but  to  associate  with  other  young 
people ;  that  is  to  be  French.  For  me,  I  amuse 
myself  also  with  young  persons  and  children. 
I  run,  I  laugh  with  them.  People  say,  'Ah ! 
see  that  gentleman,  he  is  mad ;'  but  I  do  not 
care." 

All  this  was  said  by  himself,  and  acquiesced 
in  by  madame  with  such  determined  affability, 
and  such  bland  face tiousn ess,  that  I  replied,  as 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  253 

well  as  I  could,  in  the  same  vein,  and,  though 
I  could  not  promise  any  great  amendment,  we 
parted  good  friends. 

Perhaps  one  cause  of  this  apparent  harmo- 
ny in  monsieur  and  madame  is  that  their  re- 
spective mothers  are. this  evening  come  down. 
Honorine,  who  knows  every  thing  about  every 
body,  draws  rather  a  "spicy"  picture  of  these 
two  ladies.  Apparently,  by  a  curious  law  of 
nature,  the  mother  of  our  imperious,  energetic 
landlady  is  a  gentle,  passive  old  body,  who  has 
never  done  any  thing  in  her  life,  not  even  nee- 
dle-work, and  who  yields  to  every  one ;  while 
the  mother  of  the  meek,  smooth-spoken  hus- 
band is  a  most  domineering  dame,  who  sadly 
tyrannizes  over  the  poor,  mild  old  lady,  her  as- 
sumed superiority  being  founded  on  her  great- 
er wealth.  It  seems  that  in  her  early  days 
Madame  Charlier  the  elder  was  very  poor ; 
that  her  husband,  who  had  risen  to  a  colonel's 
rank,  was  killed  gallantly  defending  an  unten- 
able position,  for  which,  after  his  death,  he  was 
made  a  general,  and  his  widow  is  at  ease  on  her 
pension.  She  has  one  other  son,  who  has  mar- 
ried a  millionnaire's  daughter,  with  whom  this 
mother-in-law  is  forever  quarrelling,  because 
she  will  live  in  the  drudging  style  to  which  she 
in  the  days  of  her  youth  was  accustomed. 


254  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

This  grim  old  lady  passed  us,  and  certainly 
she  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  an  old  bull- 
terrier  as  she  stumps  by,  short  and  puffy,  her 
features  stiffened  and  screwed  up,  and  her 
voice  at  its  softest  a  growl.  However,  she 
was  gracious  to  me,  to  whom  she  seems  to 
have  taken  a  fancy,  and  taking  hold  of  my 
hair — long  ringlets  are  an  unspeakable  mys- 
tery to  the  French  mind  —  said  in  playful 
irony,  "Dites-moi,  ils  sont  tr&s-commodes,  ces 
grands  boucles!" 

The  other  old  lady  we  also  made  acquaint- 
ance with :  as  we  sat  in  our  window,  watching 
the  games  of  the  young  people  in  the  dim  gar- 
den, there  waddled  up  to  us  the  "contrary  of 
the  terrier,"  as  Sibyl  characterized  the  good- 
humored  one  of  the  two  mesdames  mires,  and, 
sitting  down  on  the  stone  bench  outside,  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  us.  Apropos  of 
some  remark  that  I  incidentally  made,  she  lec- 
tured me,  obviously  with  a  purpose,  on  the 
propriety  and  advantage  of  being  sociable  in 
the  country — how  that  young  people  ought  to 
"courir,  jouer,  danser  a  la  ronde" — how  there 
ought  to  be  no  pride  nor  exclusiveness,  but 
perfect  equality — how  we  ought  not  to  consid- 
er whether  our  neighbors  are  richer  or  poorer 
than  ourselves,  but  join  in  their  amusements, 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  255 

and  be  all  cheerful  together — how,  when  she 
was  young,  she  sang  and  danced,  laughed  and 
enjoyed  herself.  And,  indeed,  when  I  looked 
at  her  face,  with  features  still  beautiful  at  sev- 
enty-five, I  can  well  imagine  her  youth,  even 
amidst  poverty,  to  have  been  gay  and  bright 
enough  to  fulfill  a  Frenchwoman's  notion  of 
happiness.  Why  the  good  lady  does  us  the 
honor  to  hint,  in  apparent  reference  to  us,  at 
the  pride  of  wealth,  I  do  not  know,  unless  our 
reserve,  the  fact  of  our  being  English,  and  our 
having  taken  both  the  rez-de-chaussee  and  the 
premier  have  given  us  that  reputation. 

In  spite  of  all  these  reasonable  admonitions, 
we  let  a  tumultuous  game  of  cache-cache  fill  the 
dusky,  shady  garden  without  our  help.  For 
the  most  part,  the  two  pale,  grave  young  girls, 
Eulalie  and  Julie,  wandered  about  with  the 
little  Jules,'  finding  their  own  amusement  in  a 
quiet  way;  perhaps  seated  with  the  good-na- 
tured homely  old  grandmother  in  the  moon- 
light, on  a  bench,  or  crouching  together  like 
young  birds  in  some  shadowy  corner.  And 
there  they  remain,  to  roam  the  garden  as  long 
as  they  like,  and  go  to  bed  as  late  as  they 
please,  wasting,  in  consequence,  these  beautiful 
summer  mornings  in  bed  till  eight  o'clock. 

As  for  the  older  ones,  we  find  that  on  those 


256  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

social  occasions  when  the  Paris  pensionnaires 
are  down  here  they  -retire  to  the  billiard-house, 
and  "  menent,"  as  a  peasant  expressed  it,  "  une 
vie  terrible."  He,  being  up  late  in  a  prairie 
tending  a  sick  cow,  heard  a  "tapage  furieux 
de  messieurs  et  de  dames,"  who  all  of  them 
"  smoked  like  dragoons,"  drank,  and  laughed 
till  midnight.  This  being  confided  to  Hono- 
rine  as  the  proceedings  of  her  maitres,  drew 
from  her  an  emphatic  disclaimer  of  having 
any  thing  to  do  with  that  establishment. 

When  all  is  quiet  in  our  neighborhood  we 
steal  through  the  garden  into  the  prairie,  to 
gaze  at  the  relics  of  the  sunset,  which  still 
glows  orange  over  the  aqueduct,  and  bathes 
that  end  of  the  valley  in  a  rain  of  gold  light, 
the  arches  standing  out  from  a  sea  of  glowing 
vapor  which  makes  them  too  look  unreal. 
And  then,  as  we  stand  on  this  meadow-slope, 
where  there  is  always  a  cool  fresh  whisper  of 
wTind  to  revive  us  after  the  sultry  heat,  we  see 
the  lovely  valley  melting  away  through  soft 
shades  of  grayness;  and  then,  turning  to  re- 
ascend,  we  behold  at  the  top  before  us,  niched 
in  the  arch  of  two  tall  trees,  one  pure  gold 
star.  But  wait,  and  we  shall  see  the  moon 
slowly  rise  behind  the  trees  that  border  the 
field  to  the   east,  till  she  mounts  over  their 


A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE.  257 

tops,  and  throws  silver  fretwork  across  the 
gray  slope,  and  turns  the  wall  on  the  other 
side  to  a  glittering  white,  when  the  aqueduct, 
as  if  newly  created  of  snowy  marble,  starts 
up  phantom-like  from  its  basement  of  trees. 
Look  to  the  vale,  where  the  poplars,  the  red 
rock,  and  the  houses  make  no  longer  a  molten 
mass  together,  but  slowly  and  softly  detach 
their  separate  forms,  and  stand  out  in  a  new 
and  delicate  relief.  And  then,  to  enjoy  .this, 
we  creep  into  our  favorite,  warm,  still  verdant 
nook,  and  ask  each  other  if  we  wish  to  return 
to  England. 

Once  more,  let  us  wind  up  with  a  look 
into  the  court,  now  all  stillness,  embalmed  by 
orange  fragrance,  with  the  bright  moon  look- 
ing through  the  great  walnut-trees.  We  look 
at  our  house-front :  there  is  our  drawing-room 
lamp  in  the  rez-de-chaussee,  a  shaded  light  in 
Sibyl's  nursery  on  the  premier,  another  in  one 
of  the  small  rooms  in  the  second,  where  Ma- 
dame  Leonini  and  her  sons  dwell,  and  Hono- 
rine's  candle,  in  her  high  tower-room  behind 
and  above ;  these  appear  but  as  a  few  scatter- 
ed sparks  amidst  a  general  sleepy  dusk.  And 
so,  as  Les  Eosiers  seems  to  have  fallen  asleep, 
we  will  wish  it  a  peaceful  good-night. 
E 


258  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  FKENCH  VILLAGE. 

IN  this  village,  which  belonged  to  Les  Ho- 
siers, or  Les  Eosiers  to  the  village — which 
you  will — we  gradually  became  quite  at  home. 
At  first  our  chief  link  of  communication  was 
Honorine,  who,  with  great  spirit  and  corre- 
sponding success,  has  fitted  herself  for  her  posi- 
tion here,  and  is  an  invaluable  help  to  us.  An 
excellent  servant,  faultlessly  punctual,  of  mem- 
ory never-failing,  excellent  alike  at  bargaining 
and  cooking,  quiet  and  regular  in  all  her  ways, 
there  is  no  domestic  like  Honorine.  Her  sub- 
jects of  interest  are  limited,  but  on  those  in 
which  she  knows  her  strength  she  is  abundant- 
ly positive.  Besides  procuring  us  the  good- 
will of  many  of  these  worthy  villagers,  she 
provokes  occasional  breezes  with  officials,  and 
even  sometimes  with  our proprietaires ;  however, 
these  serve  to  vary  the  monotony  of  existence. 
Like  a  true  Parisian  (though  Picard-born), 
she  has  great  contempt  for  country  manners 
and  intelligence,  especially  for  the  specimens 
here.     She  complains  of  their  way  of  talking, 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  259 

which  is  certainly  rugged  and  unintelligible, 
and  says,  "  On  a  ici  la  gorge  tr&s-forte."  Apro- 
pos of  a  very  neat  green  checked  gown  of 
hers  that  we  were  ad  mi  ring,  she  told  us  that 
as  she  went  into  the  village  the  people  by  the 
way  laughed  at  her,  and  told  her  it  was  a 
gown  to  go  to  the  Carnival  in.  This  we  sup- 
posed was  rather  a  compliment;  but  she  as- 
sured us  that  it  was  in  allusion  to  the  rags  and 
tatters  which  at  that  time  are  carried  about 
for  sale,  and  that  such  allusions  were  always 
meant  for  insolence.  "  She  said  she  had  made 
no  answer,  for  they  would  not  have  under- 
stood her,  "  tant  ces  gens  du  pays  sont  betes." 
She  could  have  said,  "C'est  trop  bon,  monsieur, 
pour  aller  au  Carnaval  avec  vous.  Mais  a 
quoi  cela  servirait-il  ?  They  would  only  have 
replied  with  some  new  insolence." 

"It  is,"  she  added,  "que  les  gens  du  pays 
n'aiment  que  les  couleurs  voyantes,  les  robes 
ecarlates  et  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  gai ;  quant 
aux  couleurs  de  Paris  qui  sont  plus  distin- 
guees,  ils  les  trouvent  mesquines.  Et  c'est  le 
meme  pour  les  figures,  ils  n'aiment  pas  les 
teints  pales,  ils  les  admirent  quand  ils  sont 
rouges  com  me  les  pavots." 

One  day  I  found  in  the  kitchen  a  tall,  very 
handsome  man,  dressed  like  a  gentleman,  evi- 


260  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

dently  intensely  conscious  of  his  attractions, 
talking  in  a  mincing  doucereux  tone,  and  ap- 
parently bringing  his  Adonis-ship  to  aid  in 
his  bargaining.  He  came  to  propose  selling 
us  butter,  represented  himself  as  a  proprietaire, 
and  talked  a  great  deal  about  his  grounds, 
his  horse,  and  himself.  Honorine,  who  enter- 
tained a  hearty  contempt  for  him,  took  him 
off  afterwards  for  our  satisfaction,  mimicked 
the  niais  air  and  soft,  drawling  tone  of  his  ad- 
dress. "Bonjour,  mademoiselle.  Est-ce  que 
madame  veut  du  beurre  ou  autre  chose  !  J'ai 
de  bon  beurre,  d'ex-cel-lent  beurre ;"  and  then, 
said  Honorine,  disdainfully,  he  went  on  about 
his  "  six  arpents  de  terre,  sa  maison  et  son  jar- 
din,  qui  dtaient  magnifiques."  What  did  that 
signify  ?  she  said.  "  What  was  the  good  of  so 
many  words,  when  he  only  came  to  talk  about 
himself?"  I  asked,  was  he  a  farmer?  "  No," 
she  said,  "il  n'a  achete  une  vache  que  pour 
s'amuser."  She  described  his  manners  as  "  bas- 
ses," his  "fagon  de  parler  grasse,  comme  s'il 
avait  du  beurre  ou  du  bouillon  dans  la  gorge;" 
and,  in  spite  of  his  "  air  pieux  talk,  as  if  he 
were  saying  his  prayers,"  she  pronounced  him 
to  have  the  look  of  an  intrigant,  such  as  in 
Paris  enter  one's  house  on  some  pretext  and 
carry  off  the  spoons. 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  261 

She  was  one  day  very  indignant  because  M. 
Charlier  had  given  to  the  concierge  a  message 
for  us,  which  she,  more  delicate,  did  not  like 
to  deliver,  viz.,  that  we  were  to  gather  no  more 
flowers,  in  spite  of  his  first  spontaneous  prom- 
ise, but  be  content  with  two  very  common 
bouquets  once  a  week.  She  declared  this 
"  tr&s-petit,  tr&s-plat — si  c'etait  a  moi,  ce  serait 
passable,  mais  donner  de  tels  ordres  a  des 
dames  et  demoiselles,  les  traiter  comme  des 
enfants  dans  la  rue — viola  ce  qu'ils  sont,  ces 
gens — c'est  ce  que  je  n'ai  jamais  su  ailleurs." 

A  slight  difference  one  day  took  place  with 
madame  la  proprietaire,  on  occasion  of  her  send- 
ing some  people,  without  any  warning,  to  take 
away  the  piano  from  our  drawing-room,  a  com- 
mission which  the  good-natured  gardener  and 
workmen  executed  very  unwillingly.  The 
postman  was  so  interested  that  he  stopped 
twice  as  he  passed  the  window,  to  look  in  and* 
repeat,  "  Quelle  mechancete !"  I  remonstrated 
a  little,  not  very  wisely,  as  she  was  perfectly 
udans  son  droit;"  but,  behold!  the  tigress 
started  up  in  a  moment,  the  French  claws 
were  out  like  lightning,  the  eyes  flashed  fire, 
and  the  voice  was  raised  to  a  perfect  peacock's 
scream  of  angry  self-justification.  Seeing  her 
in  this  excited  state,  I  said  little  or  nothing, 


968  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

and  turned  quietly  away,  she   bawling  after 
me,  "Personne  ne  m'apprendra  les  usages!" 

All  this  was  uttered  on  the  stairs,  and  was 
audible  all  through  the  house,  so  unmanage- 
able was  the  lady's  enthusiasm.  Soon  after, 
we  heard  her  raging  to  her  husband,  her  wrath 
being  now  turned  on  Honorine,  who  had  ex- 
pressed her  opinion  the  most  decidedly  of  all, 
and  who  now  heard  her  say,  "  Attends  nn  peu, 
pendant  que  j'arrange  Honorine  dans  la  cui- 
sine." The  latter,  like  a  true  French  game- 
hen,  was  not  a  bit  dismayed  by  the  prospect, 
but  prepared  herself,  with  great  glee  and  spir- 
it, for  an  equal  combat.  Taking  my  sister 
aside,  she  rehearsed  to  her  what  she  meant  to 
say,  with  the  most  animated  gestures  and  a 
perfect  theatrical  effect,  waving  her  arms  and 
throwing  worlds  of  emphasis  into  her  voice. 
The  whole  was  in  a  style  of  polite  and  cutting 
irony,  and  wound  up  with  a  sharp  hit  in  the 
way  of  allusion  to  her  guests,  with  the  words, 
"  une  maison  si  peu  respectable."  It  was 
amusing  to  see  Honorine,  who  is  ordinarily  a 
quiet  and  peaceable  person  enough,  so  trans- 
formed. However,  the  great  fight  did  not 
come  off;  for  madame  had  thought  better  of 
it,  and  in  a  few  hours  came  to  our  window,  the 
smiling,   courteous  little   Frenchwoman    once 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  268 

more,  to  explain  and  apologize  for  what  she 
called  her  "  vivacite  Francaise." 

However,  let  us  now  pass  out  of  the  porte- 
coctere,  and  find  ourselves  in  that  little  rude 
village  street  which  makes  up  Les  Eosiers.  It 
is  highly  picturesque,  as  the  cottages  are  most- 
ly crumbling  and  tumbling  at  every  corner. 
They  were  almost  all  built  from  the  ruins  of 
the  hunting  chateaux  which  the  noblesse  in  the 
olden  days  used  to  occupy  here,  and  are  of 
solid  stone,  roughly  put  together,  with  sloping 
thatched  roofs,  and  crumbling  stone  steps  out- 
side. Though  low,  they  have  a  good  deal  of 
extent  in  the  way  of  odd  ins  and  outs,  wings, 
gables,  pent -houses,  yards,  and  out -houses. 
The  street  ends  in  a  little  place,  with  the 
church  on  one  side,  the  mairie  on  the  other,  a 
large  stone  reservoir,  and  the  green  gates  of  a 
maison  bourgeoise,  with  its  pretty  garden,  which 
holds  a  family  who  are  to  become,  though  as 
yet  we  know  it  not,  valued  friends — that  of  M. 
GeVard,  a  pasteur  of  the  Protestant  Church  in 
Paris. 

The  church  is  a  plain  little  old  building, 
with  a  cock  for  vane.  "Venite  ad  me  om- 
nes"  is  written  over  the  porch,  and  beside  it 
are  a  stone  Virgin  and  Child  in  a  niche.  The 
school-house  joins  on  to  it,  and  next  that  is  a 


264  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

little  cabaret,  with  a  bush  and  a  small  picture 
of  a  party  drinking  at  a  table  over  the  door, 
and  a  China  rose  bloomin.g  between  the  win- 
dows, kept  by  the  Mere  Dubois.  The  mairie 
is  the  most  imposing  building  in  the  village, 
but  it  is  only  a  low  cottage  with  a  long  white- 
washed front,  defaced  by  various  old  affiches 
half  torn  off,  such  as  "  Vente  du  Mobilier  de 
Madame  Veuve,"  u  Adjudication  d'une  Maison 
Bourgeoise,  Jardin  et  C'our,"  "Le  Prefet  aux 
habitants  de  Seine-et-Oise.  On  repand  a  Paris 
de  fausses  nouvelles  sur  l'e'tat  de  la  province ; 
on  doit  repandre  en  province  de  fausses  nou- 
velles sur  l'e'tat  de  Paris.  L'emeute  est  suppki- 
mee  dans  la  capitale ;  toutes  les  nouvelles  des 
Departements  sont  excellentes."  And  again, 
fresh  and  conspicuous  over  all,  "  Louis  Na- 
poleon, President  de  la  Eepublique,  au  Peuple 
Frangais,"  and  then  that  long  address  of  De- 
cember 2. 

The  one  or  two  respectable  houses  of  this 
homely  little  village  rejoice  in  tiled  roofs, 
whitewashed  walls,  and  persiennes,  have  little 
gardens  in  front,  with  vines  and  sweet  peas,  a 
cherry-tree  or  so,  and  vegetables  enough  for 
themselves ;  for  there  are  none  to  be  bought 
here.  Of  these  houses  is  the  cure's,  with  its 
gabled  front  and  four  small  windows ;  nothing 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  265 

can  be  plainer  and  poorer,  but  his  garden  is 
well  tended,  and  I  believe  he  is  not  poor.  His 
sister  has  married  the  village  tailor,  and  his 
niece  makes  our  dresses. 

From  the  place  a  steep  lane,  embowered  in 
wild  roses,  brings  you  down  to  the  valley,  to 
the  somewhat  large  but  still  most  rural  village 
nestling  in  it,  with  the  little  cabaret  whence 
starts  the  omnibus  for  Versailles,  to  the  little 
stream  creeping  through,  and  the  aqueduct  on 
its  smooth  green  ridge.  At  the  other  end  of 
Les  Eosiers  you  descend  by  apple  orchards 
and  sloping  hay-fields,  now  fragrant  with  new- 
mown  grass,  to  the  same  vale.  Among  the 
woods  in  the  neighborhood  are  various  farm- 
houses called  bouillis,  and  inclosed  by  a  wall. 
These  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIY.  were  all  roy- 
al property,  and  occupied  by  the  enfants  de  la 
coitTj  as  they  called  the  Due  de  Maine,  etc., 
who  were  brought  up  there  in  seclusion,  and 
fed,  as  was  customary,  on  bouilli:  hence  the 
name. 

During  the  first. part  of  our  stay  we  received 
several  visits  for  the  day  from  Paris  friends, 
but  as  summer  went  on  almost  all  departed 
for  foreign  homes  and  distant  tours ;  and  when 
the  last  went,  I  thought,  "And  we  shall  spend 
the  next  five  months  in  one  unchanged  scene 


266  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

of  deep  solitude,  to  behold  the  summer  days 
one  after  the  other  rise  and  set  over  these 
wooded  heights  and  valley -meadows,  to  hear 
the  same  birds'  voices  in  the  same  acacia-trees, 
to  see  the  same  long  poplar-shadows  in  the 
field  below,  to  see  the  same  gold  sunsets  bathe 
the  red  rocks  and  the  arches  of  the  aqueduct, 
to  have  for  our  daily  incidents  the  same  regu- 
larly recurring  tradesmen — the  baker's  girl, 
Melanie,  bringing  the  croissants,  which  we  have 
taught  them  to  make,  at  eight  o'clock ;  the 
postman,  in  a  blue  blouse,  passing  the  window 
at  ten ;  the  boucher,  the  jardinier,  exchanging 
good-humored  words  with  us,  and  sometimes 
giving  us  a  bouquet;  to  hear  that  regular 
school-bell  which  gives  a  few  solemn  strokes 
twice  or  thrice  a  day  ;  and  to  have,  by  way  of 
variety,  an  occasional  visit  for  the  day  from  our 
proprietaires,  wound  up  by  sarcastic  comments 
from  Honorine  on  their  behavior  and  alarms 
of  new  locatairesP  Yet  such  a  life  in  so  love- 
ly a  spot,  with  an  under-current  of  dream  or  a 
sun -touch  of  hope  to  gild,  its  calm  surface, 
might  have  much  in  it  for  the  heart ;  and  so 
we  found  it. 

Never  shall  I  forget  those  delicious  sum- 
mer mornings  when  it  was  my  wont  to  ram- 
ble out  before  breakfast  to  enjoy  the  few  cool 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  267 

hours  of  the  day.  The  known,  familiar  land- 
scape seemed  then  changed  into  a  fresh-crea- 
ted paradise,  bathed  in  its  first  gold  dew,  with 
its  ethereal  elements  not  yet  quite  resolved 
from  a  rich  confusion  of  mist,  lights,  shadows, 
and  pearly  liquidness,  into  clear  and  separate 
form  !  I  went  down  through  the  orchard  and 
the  prairie  (I  am  describing  but  one  of  these 
many  walks),  out  by  a  little  gate  that  never 
shuts,  half  hid  in  thick  hedges,  into  the  corner 
of  a  small  green  lane  leading  out  into  the  three 
roads  to  different  villages.  I  passed  along, 
and  took  my  way  onward  to  a  favorite  knoll, 
on  whose  grassy  top  all  was  dewy  sunshine 
and  emerald  shade,  and  under  whose  knot  of 
tall  birch-trees  I  gazed  down  on  the  whole 
•valley.  It  slept  below,  pillowed  on  woods, 
with  wreaths  of  bright,  vague  mist  softly  hang- 
ing over  it,  the  aqueduct  at  one  end  shining 
boldly  out,  in  the  middle  rich  meadows,  pop- 
lar-bounded, the  big  village  looking  only  like 
a  few  houses  pressed  together  in  the  centre  of 
the  valley,  and  a  delicate  dream  of  blue  dis- 
tance between  woods  and  rocks  closing  up  the 
prospect.  In  the  flood  of  pale  translucent 
turquoise  above,  that  slowly  deepened  into 
solid  sapphire,  the  little  snowy  spot  of  moon 
still  hung,  but  white  and  evanescent  as  a  dy- 


268  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ing  face ;    there  was  a  soft  stir  in  the  air  like 
the  pulse  of  morning  life. 

But  sounds  are  beginning  to  wake  up 
around,  like  the  tinkling  of  small  bells,  ring- 
ing the  world  back  to  life  and  business — the 
birds  with  laughing,  whispering,  screwing,  or 
bubbling  notes ;  the  creaking  of  cart-wheels, 
frhe  whetting  of  scythes ;  the  voices  here  and 
there  of  the  hay-makers,  or  of  the  women  and 
children  watching  the  cows,  secured  as  usual 
by  a  string.  These  animals  belong  to  differ- 
ent owners,  and  are  generally  stall-fed,  though 
allowed  for  a  few  hours  in  the  day  to  graze 
in  the  field  of  some  richer  prqprietaire.  I  talk 
to  their  keepers  (they  have  to  be  guarded,  be- 
cause mostly  there  are  no  fences  or  hedges  to 
French  fields)  and  hear  the  praises  of  the  belles 
vetches,  and  admire  the  gay  groups  of  the 
younger  ones  that  run  'about  pursuing  the 
more  self-willed  of  the  charges  over  the  dewy, 
sunny  prairie-slopes,  while  others  sit  in  the 
shade  eating  their  breakfast.  Eosalie,  a  poor 
folle,  kindly  treated  by  all,  who  fancies  she  too 
is  tending  cows,  is  always  to  be  found  here, 
with  wild  looks  and  grotesque  attire.  As  a 
proof  of  her  folie,  she  wears  a  bonnet,  actually 
the  only  one  in  the  village :  a  strange,  sun- 
burnt, shapeless  thing  it  is.     Now  she  stands 


A  FttENCH  VILLAGE.  269 

and  calls  to  me,  triumphantly  waving  a  thick 
leafy  sapling- stem  like  a  sceptre. 

It  is  pleasant,  as  one  "  takes  one's  walk 
abroad,"  to  exchange  friendly  words  with 
these  peasantry.  An  old  woman  will  discuss 
flowers  with  us,  and  talk  of  those  which  are 
most  "distingues,"  and  how  we  remind  her  of 
an  English  lady  who  was  alone  in  the  pension 
last  year,  and  spent  all  her  time  in  solitary 
walks,  searching  for  wild  flowers.  The  old 
goat-herd,  as  I  pass  down  the  wide  pastures 
and  look  at  his  two  beautiful  white  goats,  the 
only  objects  breaking  those  shining  slopes, 
smiles  and  says,  "Vous  faites  votre  promenade 
de  bonne  heure,  mademoiselle!"  Even  the 
pretty  little  boy,  of  four  or  five,  who  sleeps 
curled  up  under  a  hay-stack,  opens  his  blue 
eyes  with  that  sweet,  doubtful  smile  which 
takes  the  heart  captive,  and  warbles  out, 
"  Bonjour,  madame !" 

On  this  occasion  I  explored  a  new  way,  and 
arrived  at  a  certain  cottage,  a  lonely,  aban- 
doned, poetic  cottage,  which  stands  on  its  own 
knoll  of  green  sward,  in  its  own  circle  of  trees, 
and  among  its  own  meadows,  so  charmingly 
situated,  but  so  hopelessly  forsaken,  and  to 
which  there  seems  no  possible  access  till  one 
has  found  and  followed  the  scarcely  visible 


270  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

track  upward,  and  come  close  to  it.  A  light 
white  garden-gate,  left  neglectedly  open,  and  a 
green  walk,  lead  to  the  cottage ;  a  superb  wal- 
nut-tree and  Spanish  chestnut  embower  it;  a 
vine  grows  on  one  of  the  walls,  its  neglected 
grapes  fast  ripening.  Closed  windows,  barred 
doors,  grass-grown  court,  a  blank  look,  alid 
signs  of  growing  disrepair,  speak  of  the  sixteen 
years  it  has  been  left  thus.  It  stands  so  close 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  it  looks  as  if  a  touch 
would  push  it  down  into  the  vale,  whose  beau- 
tiful secrets  it  seems  leaning  over  to  behold. 

In  a  hollow  below  I  once  saw  a  girl  tending 
two  cows — the  nymph  of  the  solitude.  I  ac- 
costed her.  She  had  a  sweet  little  piquante 
face,  with  the  usual  grave,  plaintive  expression 
of  young  womanhood  here ;  her  large  brown- 
black  eyes  were  full  of  grave,  latent  passion, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  mulatto ;  but  her  voice  had 
a  clear,  young  music  in  it,  and  her  replies  were 
cheerful.  She  was  fourteen  years  old;  her 
name,  Louise  Mouly;  she  was  servant  to  M. 
Deschamps,  a  farmer  at  Les  Eosiers,  and  kept 
his  two  cows  here  from  early  morn  till  night- 
fall, her  mistress  assisting  her  to  tend  them  in 
the  morning,  and  to  drive  them  in  at  dusk. 
Adieu,  then,  Louise  Mouly ;  pursue,  as  yet,  in 
innocent  solitude,  your  life  of  pastoral  duty ; 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  271 

some  day  your  cows  will  be  left  to  stray, 
while  those*  eyes  of  still  flame  talk  with  other 
eyes. 

But  the  sun  grows  high  and  hot,  and  I  re- 
turn home  up  the  hill  through  a  hay-field,  and 
by  a  narrow,  romantic,  red,  stony  path,  hidden 
under  the  great  branching  arms  of  some  most 
noble  marronniers  (horse-chestnuts)."  There, 
again,  led  now  by  the  old  man's  wife  through 
clustering  honeysuckles,  are  the  white  goat 
and  its  beautiful  snowy  kid,  that  leaps  over 
the  young  shrubs  and  butts  at  its  mother.  I 
admire  it  much,  and  the  old  woman  concludes 
that  there  were  no  goats  in  England.  The 
good  old  man  (of  ninety)  apologizes  for  not 
hearing  quite  well. 

As  I  approached  the  hamlet  I  remembered 
that  I  wanted  some  poppies  to  complete  a 
bouquet  of  wild  flowers  I  was  painting;  and 
seeing  some  in  a  corn-field  just  above  the  road, 
I  entered  it,  and  made  two  steps  into  the  wheat 
to  secure  my  spoil.  Suddenly  a  voice  called 
"Mademoiselle!"  and  up  started,  as  it  seemed 
from  the  ground,  a  white-bearded,  stooping  old 
peasant,  who  told  me  that  I  must  not  walk  in 
the  corn,  that  it  did  a  great  deal  of  harm,  that 
the  proprietaire  would  be  very  angry,  etc.  I 
made  all  sorts  of  apologies,  pointed  out  that  T 


272  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

had  done  no  damage,  and  went  my  way.  In 
our  own  grounds  I  found  the  workmen  con- 
versing in  some  excitement  about  something 
or  other,  and  soon  learned  that  the  subject  of 
discourse  was  that  the  garde  -  champetre  had 
caught  mademoiselle  in  the  corn,  and  was 
about  to  make  a  proces-verhal  about  it,  and 
have  her  fined.  We  consulted  M.  Charlier, 
and  found,  to  our  surprise,  that,  instead  of  be- 
ing a  mere  extortion,  the  whole  proceeding 
was  perfectly  justifiable  by  law.  The  garde- 
champetre  is  a  sort  of  public  officer,  as  much 
so,  he  said,  as  a  gendarme^  paid  by  the  com- 
munity to  guard  all  their  fields ;  that  a  single 
step  off  the  path  is  a  trespass,  which  the  garde 
is  bound  to  report;  and  that  it  is  at  the  own- 
er's choice  to  exact  what  sum  he  thinks  prop- 
er, or  "faire  dresser  un  proces-'verbal " — that 
is,  lodge  a  complaint  at  the  Cour  de  la  Justice, 
and  summon  the  offender  to  stand  his  trial. 
Though  a  suit  might  have  been  very  amusing, 
especially  if  one  had  appeared  one's  self,  in- 
stead of  paying  an  avocat,  yet,  as  it  was  not 
quite  worth  the  trouble  and  expense,  I  con- 
sented to  pay  the  amende.  M.  Charlier  prom- 
ised to  persuade  the  injured  owner  to  be  mod- 
erate in  his  demand,  and  in  due  time  the  garde- 
champetre  appeared  with  a  dirty  bit  of  paper, 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  273 

on  which  M.  Bedard  had  made  an  ill -spelt 
statement  that  I  owed  him  fifty  sous. 

No  doubt  th-e  excessive  rigor  with  which 
property  is  guarded  in  France  has  its  justifica- 
tion. The  land  is  uninclosed,  and  the  majori- 
ty of  proprietors  are  poor,  depending  wholly 
on  those  few  acres  for  their  subsistence,  so  that 
injury  is  very  easily  done,  and  would  be  se- 
verely felt.  It  is  against  law  even  to  step  off 
the  public  path  to  gather  a  flower  at  all  in  a 
field;  to  pluck  a  single  ear  subjects  one  to 
a  two-francs  fine.  So  it  seems  I  was  quite 
"dans  mon  tort."  The  same  penalties  await 
the  walking  in  a  hay-field  before  it  is  mown ; 
if,  after  it  is  mown,  the  owner  means  to  get  a 
second  crop  off  it,  he  sticks  up  a  bundle  of 
straw  and  a  piece  of  wood  in  one  corner.  If 
this  warning  is  unseen  or  disregarded,  the  in- 
evitable garde-champetre,  and  the  fine  or  the 
proch-verbal,  follow. 

This  incident  seemed  a  pleasing  excitement 
in  our  small  world.  M.  Charlier,  who,  I  think, 
enjoyed  it  the  most,  praised  the  liberality  of 
the  man  in  not  insisting  on  the  proch-verbal, 
and  told  us  some  little  stories  of  his  own  suf- 
ferings by  the  law — how  that  once  he  had  a 
horse  who  got  loose  from  the  servant,  and  ate 
some  grass   by  the  side   of  the  path,  which, 


274  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

however,  as  M.  Charlier  saw,  it  did  not  once 
leave,  yet,  threatened  with  a  proces,  he  paid  at 
once  five  francs  to  escape  it.  ■  Also,  how  that 
one  day  driving  to  Versailles  he  bought  a  lit- 
tle pig  by  the  way,  put  it  for  convenience  into 
his  carriage,  and  drove  on  into  the  town. 
Thereupon  a  clamor  arose,  his  carriage  was 
surrounded,  and  the  octroi  duty  demanded  for 
the  little  grunter;  he  refused  to  pay,  was 
charged  with  attempting  to  cheat  the  law,  his 
carriage  and  horse  were  seized,  and  he  had  to 
walk,  home,  and  pay  finally  double  the  price 
of  his  pig. 

Having  told  these  cheerful  stories,  he  wound 
up  by  adding,  with  his  oiliest  smile — probably 
by  way  of  revenge  for  the  two  or  three  roses 
we  have  taken  from  his  garden — "  Vous  voyez, 
mademoiselle,  ce  que  c'est  que  de  cueillir  des 
fleurs — les  coquelicots  coutent  cher — hein  ?" 
and  then  he  laughed  playfully. 

So  I,  with  my  noble  Anglican  spirit,  said 
"  I  did  not  imagine  people  would  be  so  hard 
on  a  demoiselle  who  did  not  know  the  law,  and 
had  done  no  mischief.  A  Francaise  would  not 
be  treated  so  in  England ;"  whereat  he  laugh- 
ed still  more. 

Next  morning,  as  I  returned  from  my  usual 
walk,  the    gardener   cheerfully   accosted   me 


A  FMENCH  VILLAGE.  275 

with  "Eh  bien,  mademoiselle,  vous  etiez  done 
attrappee  hier — n'est-ce  pas  ?" 

The  cure,  who  called  soon  after,  treated  the 
affair  as  a  mere  extortion,  and  said  the  man 
was  a  vieux  ivrogne)  who  only  wanted  some- 
thing to  drink — "voila!"  The  thing  is  also 
condemned  in  the  village  on  a  chivalrous 
point  of  view,  and  a  message  was  sent  to  me 
by  one  of  its  inhabitants,  that  he  was  very 
sorry  I  had  been  so  treated,  "  pour  le  credit  de 
la  France,"  and  that  he  hoped  I  would  come 
and  gather  as  many  flowers  from  his  garden 
as  I  liked. 

This  resulted  in  a  visit  from  Sibyl  and  me 
to  the  peasant-proprietor,  who  is  quite  a  great 
man  in  his  way,  and  is  no  other  than  M.  Lan- 
glois,  the  master-mason,  whom  M.  Charlier  em- 
ploys. The  visit  was  originated  by  Honorine, 
who  accompanied  us;  she  delights  in  being 
associated  with  our  doings,  and  is  always  ea- 
ger to  take  us  about  and  introduce  us  to  her 
friends.  The  house  is  a  solid,  picturesque 
stone  cottage,  whose  entrance  and  exterior 
would  be  considered  shabby  in  England, 
though  the  proprietors  are  rich  and  have 
taken  pains  to  make  themselves  comfortable ; 
but  good  building,  at  least  good  finishing  off, 
seems  a  thing  unknown  in  French  country- 


276  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

life.  We  entered  through  a  low  dark  door, 
by  a  passage  darker  still,  then  through  a  low, 
large  empty  room  where  cider  is  made,  and 
emerged  into  a  good-sized  garden  at  the  back, 
with  plenty  of  fruits,  vegetables,  and  nice  flow- 
ers, and  a  beautiful  view  over  the  valley. 

Madame  told  us  with  pride  that  it  was  kept 
up  entirely  by  her  son,  who,  as  he  worked 
with  his  father  on  M.  Chaiiier's  grounds,  had 
only  an  hour  or  two  in  the  early  morning  or 
the  late  evening  to  devote  to  it.  The.  young 
man  presently  appeared,  and  blushed  his  mod- 
est pleasure  at  our  praise  of  his  labors,  though 
only  venturing  now  and  then  to  join  with  a 
word  or  two  in  the  conversation.  He  is  about 
twenty  years  old,  tall  and  slight,  and  has  a 
charming  face,  with  something  of  the  sweet- 
ness and  modesty  of  a  girl's  expression,  a  fem- 
inine gentleness  of  manner,  and  withal  so 
good,  true,  and  simple  a  look,  that  one  can  not 
imagine  any  thing  but  innocence  in  the  soul 
within.  I  have  not  unfrequently  met  this 
type  among  the  peasant-boys  here,  a  delicate, 
almost  Kaffaelesque  beauty  of  feature,  with  an 
equally  beautiful  expression. 

The  good  woman  then  showed  us  over  all 
her  premises:  her  husband  bought  the  place 
sixteen  years  ago,  and  they  made  it,  garden 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  277 

and  all,  entirely  themselves.  When  I  asked 
her  if  she  was  fond  of  it,  she  said  that  to  her 
there  was  no  such  place  in  the  world !  They 
have,  besides,  six  arpents  de  terre,  consisting  of 
a  meadow  whence  they  get  hay,  and  which 
is  full  of  fine  old  apple  -  trees,  used  for  cider. 
This  they  sell  in  large  quantities,  and  make  a 
great  profit  by ;  it  is  the  only  article  of  their 
produce  that  they  sell.  She  insisted  on  our 
tasting  her  cider,  which  is  very  good. 

After  this  we  went  into  the  yard,  inspecting 
the  nice  clean  greniers,  fragrant  with  hay,  and 
full  of  the  great  wooden  vessels,  pails,  and  bar- 
rels used  for  cidsr-making  and  other  purposes. 
Then  we  went  to  the  cow-house,  and  admired 
a  very  beautiful  creature,  cream-colored,  some- 
thing like  an  Alderney,  but  large  and  vigor- 
ous. It  was  stall-fed,  as  is  the  custom  here, 
being  turned  out  only  for  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  day.  All  these  concerns  —  garden,  cider- 
press,  cow,  and  farm -yard  —  are  managed  by 
the  indefatigable  son,  who  winds  up  his  day 
with  the  accounts.  The  drawing-room  (never 
used)  and  the  best  bedroom  were  also  shown 
us ;  these  were  furnished  as  in  the  houses  of 
the  gentry,  especially  the  latter,  which  was  in 
fact  the  real  sitting-room. 

We  parted  with  many  mutual  politenesses, 


378  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO. 

and  much  pleasure  on  our  parts  at  this  glimpse 
of  a  character  unknown  in  England  —  the 
peasant -proprietor,  completely  a  peasant,  yet 
wealthy,  possessed  of  all  the  comforts  consist- 
ent with  his  social  position,  and  not  aspiring  to 
more.  The  good  woman  herself  was  dressed 
like  the  humblest  paysanne;  the  handkerchief 
coiffure,  the  loose  body  quite  untrimmed,  the 
short  bed-gown  petticoat,  blue  stockings,  and 
coarse  shoes — all  of  the  plainest  cut  and  tex- 
ture, and  all,  though  not  unbecoming  to  youth, 
bloom,  and  a  light  figure,  seemingly  made  to 
show  off  the  advances  of  age. 

One  day  we  performed  a  very  necessary  but 
rather  rare  expedition ;  we  went  shopping  to 
Versailles.  !  We  took  the  omnibus  to  go  there, 
and  returned  walking  in  the  cool  of  the  even- 
ing. We  went  down  to  the  Bon  Coin  Al- 
lard's,  the  little  cabaret  at  the  bottom  of  the 
lane,  to  await  the  small  yellow  omnibus  which, 
announced  by  its  horn  as  it  came  winding 
along  the  shady  road  from  Montbrun,  rattled 
up  to  the  cabaret,  with  its  crimson  curtain 
and  its  one  gray  horse,  and  its  good-humored, 
good-looking,  stammering  conducteur.  There 
stepped  in  with  us  another  party,  who  quickly 
attracted  our  notice.  It  consisted  of  an  elder- 
ly gentleman  and  a  pretty,  graceful  girl  of  sev- 


A  FRENCH  VILLAGE.  270 

enteen,  evidently  his  daughter.  Sibyl  talked 
with  the  father.  I  with  the  young  girl,  who 
strongly  took  my  fancy.  How  charming  she 
was  in  her  fresh  youth,  the  fair  face  and  its 
happy,  serene  smile,  the  neat  girlish  toilet,  of 
which  the  fancy -straw  bonnet,  coquettishly 
lined  with  pink;  set  off  her  clear  colorless  com- 
plexion, and  the  bouquet  of  flowers  she  held 
in  her  hand.  I  began  admiring  it,  which  at- 
tention she  took  very  prettily,  and  said,  smil- 
ing, she  shouldtell  her  Paris  friends,  to  whom 
she  was  bringing  it,  "  qu'on  avait  admir£  son 
bouquet."  Among  her  roses  was  a  York  and 
Lancaster  rose,  of  which  I  told  her  the  English 
name,  and,  presuming  on  a  natural  ignorance 
of  our  history,  was  explaining  its  origin,  when 
she  at  once  rejoined,  "Oui,  la  guerre  des 
Eoses."  So  I  guessed,  and  accurately,  too, 
that  she  had  been  well  brought  up  by  careful 
and  intelligent  parents. 

Sibyl  jneanwhile  had  discovered  that  these 
were  our  neighbors  in  the  place,  the  Gerards, 
and  that  they  meant  to  call  on  us.  The  fa- 
ther, an  earnest  and  conscientious  man,  and 
liberal  theologian,  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  Prot- 
estant clergyman  of  Paris.  Though  the  little 
house  here  belonged  to  them,  and  they  come 
to  it  for  the  summer,  so  much  of  their  time 


280  TWENTY  YEAMB  AGO. 

was  spent  in  Paris  that  our  intercourse  with 
them  proved  fitful  and  irregular,  though  al- 
ways pleasant. 

We  entered  Versailles,  stopped  at  the  Ave- 
nue de  la  Mairie,  and  spent  two  hours  shop- 
ping in  the  Eue  Satory.  It  is  a  great,  unat- 
tractive place,  this  Versailles,  with  its  wide, 
hard,  stony,  and  sandy  thoroughfares,  mostly 
at  faultless  right  angles  with  each  other ;  its 
glare  of  white  buildings,  in  which  long  dull 
barracks  predominate;  its  wani  of  life,  of  well- 
dressed  people,  and  carriages — this  aspect  of 
straight  uniformity  being  but  little  relieved  by 
the  formal  avenues  of  trees  which  intersect  it. 
The  whole  looks  like  a  military  town  provided 
with  shops  only  for  the  use  of  the  garrison. 
There  is  not  in  the  whole  place  an  object  of 
interest  that  I  can  discover,  except  the  Cha- 
teau and  the  Trianon.  It  strikes  one,  too, 
how  very  few  people  there  are  in  a  town  built 
for  30,000  inhabitants ;  all  looks  «dull  and 
empty  and  fine.  Finally  we  leave  it  by  the 
Eue  Chantier,  a  long,  rough,  ill-paved,  detest- 
able street,  where  one  sees  nothing  but  detach- 
ed magasins  of  the  least  engaging  sort  —  re- 
mises, stables,  timber-yards,  marchandise  de  vin, 
de  tabac,  etc.  —  with  constant  gaps  filled  by 
mere  waste  places. 


A  FRENCH   VILLAGE.  281 

But,  once  past  the  Barrifere,  we  soon  find  our- 
selves -in  the  forest-way  home,  which  consists 
of  a  pleasant  walk  of  forty  minutes  through 
the  Bois  de  Go u arts,  with  shade  above  us  all 
the  way— long  vistas  before  and  on  each  side 
of  the  wider  wood-walks  cut  like  green  ribbons 
through  the  trees.  At  first  we  avoided  the 
temptation  of  those  narrow  paths,  that  seem 
stealing  secretly  away  to  some  green  paradise 
that  they  alone  know  of;  but  now  that  we 
have  mastered  the  geography  of  this  wood,  we 
fearlessly  follow  them,  diving  up  and  down 
between  banks  of  fern,  moss,  and  heath,  with 
many  an  aromatic  dry  wood -scent,  golden 
broken  bits  of  sunshine,  and  islands  of  the  li- 
lac-blushing west  at  intervals.  Besides,  if  we 
became  bewildered,  there  was,  to  reassure  and 
direct  us,  the  ^Itoile — a  great  open  grassy  cir- 
cle in  the  middle  of  the  forest,  from  which  di- 
verge ten  green  roads  like  spokes  of  a  wheel, 
with  the  obelisk-like  guide-post  in  the  middle, 
covered  all  round  with  the  names  of  Buc,  Bou- 
lie,  Monteuil,  etc.  And  all  the  way  the  black- 
caps sang  out  deliciously,  as  if  proud  to  have 
the  woods  to  themselves,  with  no  real  nightin- 
gales to  mock  their  imitation,  or  as  if  minded 
to  make  their  last  songs  their  best.  And  the 
cuckoo,  whose  pertinacious  voice  is  heard  ev- 


282  TWENTY  YEAMS  AGO. 

ery  day  through  rain  and  shine,  who  began  the 
first,  and  has  survived  the  nightingale  and  all 
the  brief  passionate  joys  of  spring,  unchanged 
amidst  all  these  changes,  goes  on  with  those 
two  passionless  notes  of  his  that  seem  repeat- 
ing "  Life  is  very  weary."  But  patience,  poor 
dull  cuckoo !  another  year,  and  better  times 
will  come  yet. 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  283 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FRIENDS   AND   FETES. 

THE  G^rards  paid  their  promised  visit,  and 
thus  began  an  acquaintance  which  was  to 
become  a  happy  friendship.  The  young  Lu- 
cile  accompanied  her  father  on  the  first  call, 
and,  with  her  bright  face  looking  out  from  the 
large  straw  hat  and  its  blue  ribbons,  resembled 
(I  must  use  French  words  to  describe  a  French 
girl)  a  petite  rose  des  buissons  baignee  de  rosee. 
She  had  charming  manners,  not  at  all  shy,  and 
full' of  vivacity,  but  fresh  and  natural  as  possi- 
ble, and  marked  by  a  modest  grace.  Her  eyes 
and  mouth  talked  in  smiles,  and  her  fresh 
young  voice  joined  to  them  the  music  of  lively 
words.  She  brought  me  a  pretty  bouquet,  be- 
cause I  had  admired  the  one  she  had  with  her 
in  the  omnibus.  She  looked  like  one  secure 
of  a  happy  future,  giving  as  much  to  hope  as 
she  can  spare  from  a  sunny  present. 

From  this  time  our  intercourse  became  fre- 
quent and  easy ;  we  drank  tea  at  each  other's 
houses,  and  made  acquaintance  with  an  elder 
married  daughter,  who  was  less  of  a  graceful 


284  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

vision  than  Lucile,  but  had  plenty  of  character 
and  brain.  In  one  of  our  visits  I  learned  that 
M.  Gerard  had  an  ardent  desire  for  his  daugh- 
ter to  learn  English,  and  had  promised  her  a 
visit  to  England  when  she  could  speak  and 
understand  it  tolerably.  I  gladly  offered  my 
services  as  instructress,  and  was  accepted ;  but 
he  doubted  her  fulfilling  the  conditions :  "Elle 
£tait  trop  nigaude." 

"Elle  en  a  bien  l7air,"  said  Sibyl,  laughing 
and  looking  at  her ;  she  confirmed  her  father's 
statement  in  words,  while  her  speaking  face 
and  beaming  eyes  laughed  an  animated  con- 
tradiction. 

From  this  time  forth  for  many  weeks  it  was 
an  almost  daily  pleasure  to  see  the  tall,  elegant, 
girlish  form  come  in  at  three  o'clock  through 
the  south  garden,  in  her  white  muslin  jacket, 
her  pretty  hat  on  her  head  or  in  her  hand, 
then  enter  the  drawing-room  and  stand  grace- 
ful and  womanly  while  she  did  the  first  cere- 
monial salutations,  being  always  carefully  po- 
lite, like  a  true  Frangaise.  Then  I  put  up 
my  painting  materials,  put  on  my  hat,  and  we 
wandered  out  to  our  fayorite  resort  at  the  top 
of  the  prairie.  Here  we  sat  under  the ^ great 
walnut-tree,  and  did  our  lesson  most  conscien- 
tiously, Lucile  pleasantly  distorting  her  pretty 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  285 

little  mouth  in  the  painful  task  of  repeating 
our  harsh  verbs.  My  system  was  pf  a  very 
easy,  accommodating  sort ;  instead  of  crushing 
my  pupil  at  the  outset  with  grammar,  syntax, 
and  exercises,  I  took  a  light,  conversational 
book,  made  her  read  first  in  English  as  a 
conversation-lesson,  then  translate  it  word  by 
word  into  French;  then  I  questioned  about 
the  words  in  each  sentence,  and  when  she 
went  home,  with  the  help  of  a  dictionary  she 
wrote  out  the  whole  lesson  in  French,  and 
brought  it  to  me  the  next  day  to  correct.  My 
method  answered  so  far  that  the  parents  as- 
sured me  Lucile  would  never  have  got  on  so 
well  with  any  one  else.  I  was,  indeed,  pleased 
with  her  progress.  "But  wait,"  I  thought; 
"  this  is  but  the  outset,  and  we  are  in  the 
country,  and  there  are  no  fetes,  no  dances,  to 
disturb  her  mind;  we  must  not  be  too  san- 
guine." 

We  were  very  conscientious,  as  I  said,  in 
doing  our  lessons,  but  that  left  plenty  of  time 
to  talk,  and  plenty  of  talk  accordingly  we  had  ; 
my  sister  often  joined  us,  and  we  made  a  mer- 
ry trio,  spending  the  time  in  playful  quarrels, 
long  discussions,  curious  inquiries  about  man- 
ners and  customs,  and  a  good  deal  of  innocent 
village  commerage.     On  all  these  subjects  Lu- 


286  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

cile  talked  with  bright  intelligence ;  she  was,  1 
found,  by#no  means  fenced  in  with  that  passive 
infantine  ignorance  generally  imposed  on  de- 
moiselles of  her  age.  She  was,  however,  very 
carefully  shielded  from  harm,  her  reading 
strictly  supervised,  her  society  limited  and 
selected,  and,  indeed,  her  whole  talking  and 
thinking  was  pure  as  a  stream  running  over 
pebbles. 

Sometimes  Lucile  was  pleasantly  rallied  on 
various  youthful  qualities ;  once,  when  she  was 
reading  to  us  from  Dumas's  "  Memoires,"  the 
following  sentence  occurred:  "Je  soupgonne 
fort  la  curieuse  de  dix-sept  ans  d'avoir  colle 
son  visage  blond  et  rose  contre  la  porte  pour 
entendre  la  conversation."  Sibyl  maliciously 
interposed,  "Take  notice,  mademoiselle  —  la 
curieuse  de  dix-sept  ans." 

"D'abord,  madame,"  she  answered,  with  vi- 
vacity, "j'ai  'honneur  de  vous  avertir  que 
j'avais  hier  dix-huit  ans,  et  puis — mais  oui,  je 
suis  un  peu  curieuse,  il  faut  l'avouer." 

Sometimes  I  rallied  Lucile  on  her  idleness, 
my  pleasantries  being,  as  may  be  supposed,  of 
the  most  soft  and  stingless  description;  but 
she  would  defend  herself  smartly,  and  appeal 
from  me  to  madame,  the  moderator  and  medi- 
ator, who,  as  she  said,  was  always  anxious  that 


FEIENDS  AND  FETES.  287 

no  one  should  be  hurt,  and  took  care  to  inter- 
pret every  thing  in  her  favor.  Dear  little  Lu- 
cile!  who  in  good  earnest  could  hurt  her? 
But  certainly  Sibyl  came  nearer  to  the  aimdble 
French  type  than  I,  who  must  have  presented 
a  great  contrast  to  that  same  type,  in  the  true 
English  girl  that  I  then  was,  with  the  timidity 
often  carried  to  gaucherie,  the  anxious  self-con- 
sciousness, the  abrupt  sincerity  and  wild  tastes, 
the  whole  earnest,  sometimes  harsh,  sometimes 
interesting  individuality.  Lucile,  with  all  her 
artless  sweetness,  had  in  her  the  germ  of  the 
charming  finished  woman  of  the  world. 

After  all,  I  had  not  been  more  severe  on  her 
than  I  had  upon  one  to  whom,  during  these 
village  fetes,  our  attention  had  been  directed, 
as  one  of  the  best  and  steadiest,  as  well  as  the 
handsomest,  young  men  of  the  place  —  Hip- 
poly  te  Langlois,  now  at  work  both  at  the  Ge- 
rards'  and  our  house.  She  told  me  how  one 
day  she  and  her  sister,  with  a  great  parade  of 
application,  took  their  chairs  and  their  books 
and  work  out  on  the  lawn,  but  after  an  hour 
or  so's  apparent  studiousness  all  they  got  by  it 
was  that  this  young  ouvrier  called  out  in  an 
innocent  manner  to  his  fellow- workmen,  "Dites 
done,  Maurice,  n'est-ce  pas  une  belle  chose  que 
la  faineantise  bien  prattquee?" 


288  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

Just  now  this  young  village  wit  is,  as  I  said, 
an  object  of  interest  to  us,  on  account  of  the 
fStes  which  are  beginning  at  Les  Eosiers,  and 
of  which  our  respective  bonnes,  Honorine  and 
Louise,  are  the  most  distinguished  ornaments. 
We  sympathize  warmly  with  their  dresses  and 
their  successes,  and,  like  grave  and  experi- 
enced chaperonnes,  discuss  the  characters  and 
fortunes  of  their  admirers. 

The  fiSte,  for  which  all  the  world  is  now  pre- 
paring, is  that  of  St.  Eustache,  the  patron  saint 
of  our  little  church,  and  is  the  most  important 
in  the  year  except  the  Fete-Dieu,  which  took 
place  in  June.  There  will  be  a  grande  messe 
in  the  morning,  with  a  ball  in  the  evening; 
our  proprietaires  have  invited  a  number  of 
people  for  that  week,  and  the  dignity  of  the 
church  proceedings  will  be  enhanced  by  the 
presence  of  the  Archbishop  of  Chalcedoine  — 
in  what  partibus  inftdelium  situated  my  geog- 
raphy books  do  not  inform  me,  but  I  conclude 
Asia  Minor  —  who  is  come  to  stay  with  M. 
le  Curd 

The  said  curd  called  one  afternoon,  his  ob- 
ject being  to  borrow  a  crimson  cushion  for  use 
in  the  church  of  monseigneur  the  archbishop. 
The  prelate  is  a  Smyrniote  by  birth,  and  has 
a  negro  servant  whom  he  bought  in  the  slave- 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  289 

market  of  Smyrna,  and  whose  face  is  marked 
with  three  scars,  inflicted  by  his  mother  at  his 
birth,  which,  it  seems,  is  the  fashion  of  the  boys 
of  the  tribe  to  which  he  belonged.  The  cure 
is  a  meek  little  man,  whose  relations  are  among 
the  peasantry  of  the  village,  his  niece  having 
married  the  village  tailor.  We  see  his  small, 
straight,  black  figure  from  time  to  time  steal- 
ing along  our  garden  walks,  through  the 
trees,  and  sometimes  into  the  house,  with  the 
stealthy  quietness  of  his  class.  The  gliding, 
black-robed  form  looks  strange  to  us  Protest- 
ants ;  but  I  perfectly  acquit  this  peaceable  lit- 
tle priest  of  any  designs  towards  our  conver- 
sion or  destruction.  The  Sunday  before  the 
fete  we  had  a  business  visit  from  M.  le  Bedeau 
(beadle),  M.  le  Maire,  and  M.  le  Tailleur.  Their 
object  was  to  collect  a  new  black  coat  for  the 
beadle — not  before  it  is  wanted,  as  I  can  testi- 
fy. He  came  humbly  in  a  blouse,  and  there- 
fore did  not  present  the  petition  himself,  that 
being  appropriately  done  by  the  tailor. 

But  our  chief  interest  at  present  is  about  the 
toilet  of  our  Honorine  for  the  evening  dance, 
which  is  a  grand  event  in  her  quiet,  contented, 
hard-working  life.  And  here  we  can  not  help 
noticing  that  a  change  has  gradually  been 
coming  over  her.  In  spite  of  her  Parisian 
T 


290  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

scorn  for  the  pay  sans ,  there  is  one  blouse 
whom  I  had  early  noticed  as  more  frequently 
than  the  others  passing  our  drawing-room  to 
the  kitchen  on  errands  that  seem  to  me  some- 
what frivolous,  who  stays  longer,  at  parting 
repeats  more  often,  and  in  softer  tones,  the 
"Bonjour,  mademoiselle" — a  blouse  whom,  in 
short,  as  Sibyl  expresses  it,  she  has  found  too 
blue  for  her  peace.  The  symptoms  are,  she 
now  wears  constantly  her  best  dress,  and  that 
lace  cap,  with  its  coquette  ribbons,  for  which 
she  paid  six  francs;  and  sometimes,  like  us, 
she  has  a  tea-rose  in  her  band,  when,  her  day's 
work  done,  she  wanders  about  the  garden  with 
the  white  kitten  in  her  arms.  Also  I  meet 
her  on  the  stairs,  too  deeply  preoccupied  to 
see  me,  moving  without  her  usual  buoyant  ac- 
tivity ;  and  when  I  rally  her  on  her  "  air  se- 
rieux,"  she  can  only  repeat,  hurriedly,  "  Mais, 
mademoiselle ;  je  pensais."  I  connect  all  this 
with  the  secret  excitement,  veiled  in  laughter, 
with  which  she  told  me  of  "  deux  messieurs  " 
in  the  village  who  had  engaged  her  as  a  part- 
ner for  this  fete  a  month  beforehand.  The 
person  whom  I  suspect  is  of  course  Hippolyte 
Langlois,  the  peasant-proprietor's  son  :  at  anj^ 
rate,  he  is  always  the  person  meant  when  she 
speaks  casually  of  "  un  jeune  monsieur,"  and 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  291 

is  certainly  a  legitimate  object  of  attraction. 
It  is  proudly  told  of  him  that  at  the  conscrip- 
tion three  years  ago  he  was  drawn,  and  bought 
off  at  the  unusally  high  sum  of  one  thousand 
three  hundred  francs,  on  account  of  his  supe- 
rior physical  qualifications ;  this  shows,  too, 
his  value  to  his  family. 

Well,  we  questioned  Honorine  about  her  toi- 
let, and  found  she  had  nothing  but  an  old, 
faded,  gink  cotton  gown,  and  was  too  econom- 
ical to  buy  another.  So  we  have  done  our 
best  to  make  her  belle,  by  buying  a  very  pret- 
ty gay  blue  print,  that  looks  like  muslin,-  and 
gives  her  great  satisfaction ;  and  the  cure's 
niece  is  set  to  work  at  once  to  make  it  up. 
Likewise  I  gave  her  a  commission  to  Versailles 
to  get  herself  small  additional  items ;  she  is  so 
grateful  and  easily  satisfied  that  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  help  her. 

The  great  day  of  the  fete  began,  unfortu- 
nately, with  pouring  rain,  much,  I  fear,  to  the 
detriment  of  the  chateau  arrangements  (we  are 
the  chateau,  I  should  observe).  These,  how- 
ever, have  gone  on  with  great  bustle  and  ener- 
gy all  the  day  ;  servants,  gardeners,  workmen, 
pass  our  windows  every  moment,  carrying 
down  the  materials  for  a  grand  dinner  in  the 
billiard -house   on  the   second  terrace,  where, 


292  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

fortunately  for  us,  the  revels  are  to  be  held. 
First,  our  great  dining-table  is  borrowed  ;  then 
the  unjustly  seized  piano  is  hauled  down 
through  the  soaking  rain,  and  a  confusion  of 
French  voices  raised  to  their  highest  pitch. 
From  time  to  time  carriages  drive  in,  and  dis- 
charge ladies  in  gay  dresses,  prepared  for  a 
holiday  in  the  country.  M.  and  Madame 
Charlier,  en  grande  tenue)  equal  to  the  occasion, 
and  apparently  in  the  highest  spirits,  pass  to 
and  fro,  and  civilty  ask  us  to  join  their  party 
at  tea,  which  we  civilly  decline,  having  a  bet- 
ter iete  in  view — that  of  the  villagers  in  the 
Place. 

The  village,  too,  is  getting  on  with  its  prepa- 
rations for  the  grande  messe  and  the  fete.  The 
former  was  preceded  by  a  procession  of  chil- 
dren, the  first  sign  of  which  was  in  the  garden- 
er's cottage,  which,  I  should  mention,  has  now 
new  occupants,  as  our  musical  and  choleric 
friend  has  been  dismissed,  and  a  good  old 
couple  with  a  pretty  little  son  and  daughter 
installed  instead.  I  looked  in,  and  found  the 
mother  putting  the  last  touches  to  little  Au- 
gustine's toilet,  as  she  was  to  join  the  proces- 
sion. The  white  garland  which  was  to  crown 
her  was  hanging  up ;  I  tried  it  on  for  a  mo- 
ment, which   produced   a   burst   of  delighted 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  293 

laughter  from  all  present,  even  the  gardener 
joining,  as  they  declared  "Mademoiselle  va 
se  marier!"  and  explained  that  it  was  a  bridal 
wreath.  The  gardener's  wife  showed  me  her 
own  bridal  bouquet  of  white  flowers,  and 
wreath  of  orange  -  buds,  kept  under  a  glass 
case,  and  said,  "Quand  Augustine  se  mariera, 
si  le  bon  Dieu  le  permette,  elle  portera  une 
couronne  et  un  bouquet  comme  9a."  Then 
she  began  with  great  animation  telling  me 
about  village  weddings  :  th.Q  fetes  des  noces  last 
two  days ;  dancing  is  kept  up  till  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  She  promised  to  inform  me 
when  next  a  wedding  takes  place,  that  we 
may  see  it. 

Meanwhile,  Augustine's  toilet  was  finished ; 
and  very  pretty  the  little  thing  looked,  in  her 
fresh  white  frock  of  cambric  muslin,  with  her 
smooth  golden-brown  hair  wreathed  with  white 
flowers,  and  her  little  feet  in  tiny  gray  boots. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  basket  of  roses,  which 
her  mother  was  showing  her  how  to  fling,  as 
she  would  have  to  do ;  and  she,  first  a  little 
pale  with  timidity,  then  blushing  as  we  looked 
at  her  and  praised  her  dress,  flew  off  like  a 
little  bird  to  the  church.  I  staid  a  moment 
to  finish  the  chat  with  the  jardiniere,  Augus- 
tine having  joined  the  party,  as  well  as  the 


294  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

little  boy  Alexandre,  in  his  blouse,  still  pret- 
tier than  his  sister,  who  listened  with  evident 
enjoyment  to  the  conversation.  They  were  all 
at  full  laughing  and  screaming  pitch  ;  the  jar- 
diniere, honest  woman  !  has  a  particularly  good- 
humored  unmusical  cackle. 

I  followed  to  the  church  with  Honorine,  and 
'found  the  village  preparing  for  the  great  event 
— that  is  to  say,  suspending  clean  sheets  on  a 
line  by  wooden  pegs,  just  as  if  it  were  wash- 
ing-day, all  along  the  street.  Some  of  the 
sheets  had  a  rose  or  a  bunch  of  sweet  peas 
stuck  into  the  middle  of  them,  but  that  was 
all. 

We  found  the  little  church  gayer  and  pret- 
tier than  we  had  expected,  with  flowers,  pic- 
tures, candles,  and  crucifixes,  and  the  little 
girls  in  white  seated  in  order.  There  stood 
the  cure  at  the  altar,  in  his  chasuble  of  crim- 
son brocade,  with  a  great  gold  cross  down  his 
back ;  and  the  Archbishop  of  Chalcedoine  sat 
beside  the  altar,  in  his  cope  of  purple  watered 
silk,  with  his  face  darkened  by  Southern  suns, 
his  gleaming  good-humored  eyes,  his  portly 
figure,  and  a  fine  diamond  ring.  And  there 
was  the  bedeau  in  the  new  coat  to  which  ive 
had  contributed  our  mite. 

There  was  chanting  of  the  howling  descrip- 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  295 

tion,  a  short  prone,  and  the  usual  ceremonies, 
done  more  gorgeously  in  Paris  churches,  the 
young  choristers,  in  red  and  white  costume, 
chanting,  flinging  the  censer,  ringing  the  bell, 
bearing  tapers,  which  it  was  pretty  to  see  the 
little  ones  trying  in  vain  to  hold  upright.  At 
last  the  procession  moved  forth,  three  priests 
carrying  the  Host,  whose  crimson  canopies 
were  decked  at  each  corner  with  paper  cut  to 
look  like  plumes,  the  priests'  dresses  looking 
like  bedroom  curtains  cut  up  into  copes  and 
stoles,  and  their  faces  certainly  not  ideal.  A 
man  in  black  and  white  robes,  and  spectacles, 
performed  the  chanting  in  fearful  wise.  Then 
followed  the  twelve  white -robed  little  girls, 
throwing  flowers,  and  I  observed-  little  Augus- 
tine looking  first  carefully  at  the  others,  to  see 
how  they  did  it.  At  one  or  two  stations,  or 
reposoirs  as  they  are  called,  the  train  stopped 
and  knelt,  the  white  muslins  taking  care  not 
to  spoil  their  freshness,  and  only  pretending  to 
kneel. 

At  two  o'clock  came  the  ceremony  of  carry- 
ing round  the  gateau^  made  of  pain  benit  A 
separate  one  is  carried  to  each  house ;  but,  as 
it  is  merely  looked  at  and  paid  for,  it  is,  I  sup- 
pose, only  a  way  of  raising  contributions  for 
the  Church.     The  office  of  carrying  round  the 


396  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

cake  is  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  young  men, 
who  make  a  great  deal  of  amusement  out  of  it. 
This  time  the  cake,  which,  in  consideration  of 
our  religious  scruples,  was  not  blessed  before 
it  was  brought  to  us,  was  carried  by  the  young 
mason  in  full  dress,  blushing  a  great  deal,  and 
Honorine  of  course  stood  by  us,  conscious  and 
interested. 

At  half-past  eight  in  the  evening  Honorine 
went  to  her  fete,  accompanied,  at  her  request, 
by  us.  We  could  not  persuade  her  to  go  ear- 
lier, as  she"  was  determined  to  finish  all  her 
work  for  us,  and  get  our  tea  ready  first.  She 
wore  her  gay  blue  print,  in  all  its  first  gloss 
and  freshness,  with  short  hanging  sleeves  and 
lace  cuffs,  a  nice  steel  brooch,  yellow  silk 
gloves,  a  handkerchief  which  I  perfumed  for 
her  with  eau-de-cologne,  neat  gray  brodequins, 
and  her  dark  hair  beautifully  done,  with  its 
plaited  coils  behind  and  its  smooth  braids  in 
front.  We  eyed  her  all  over,  and  agreed  that 
the  right  effect  had  been  produced.  She  look- 
ed fresh  and  well-dressed  without  being  fine, 
and  her  pleased,  modest  looks  were  in  keep- 
ing. Her  personal  attractions,  besides,  are 
youth,  health,  a  fresh  complexion,  and  anima- 
ted eyes. 

So  we  set  out  for  the  place  where  the  tent 


FMIENDS  AND  FETES.  297 

had  been  put  up.  The  ground  was  laid  with 
planks,  benches  were  set  all  round,  lamps  hung 
from  the  ceiling,  and  some  thirty  people  col- 
lected and  dancing  quadrilles — the  only  dance 
practiced  by  French  country  people — to  very 
lively  airs  from  a  double-bass,  cornet-a-piston, 
and  violin. 

The  young  mason,  who  seemed  to  act  as 
steward,  met  us  at  the  entrance ;  he  was  dress- 
ed like  a  gentleman,  and  so  did  not  look  quite 
so  well  as  in  his  blue  blouse.  He  spoke  to 
Honorine,  his  long -engaged  partner,  but  her 
lateness  caused  him  to  be  engaged  with  sev- 
eral others  already.  We  found  our  way  to  a 
bench,  and  for  some  time  she  had  to  sit  still 
with  us ;  I  was  in  pain  for  her,  lest  the  only 
two  partners  she  had  secured  should  fail  her, 
and  all  her  nice  toilet  and  her  happy  expecta- 
tions come  to  nothing.  In  time  she  too  began 
to  look  a  little  anxious,  as  the  dance  grew  gay- 
er and  more  strenuous,  and  more  people  drop- 
ped in,  but  no  partner  appeared. 

In  the  mean  while,  I  must  confess,  the  dan- 
cing was  more  lively  than  elegant,  the  usual 
step  being  a  galop,  with  various  attitudes  and 
additions  not  recognized  in  salons,  and  some- 
times breaking  into  a  decided  romp.  The 
women  were  generally  neat,  though  not  pretty 


298  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

(even  the  good-looking  ones  here  so  soon  grow 
hard  -  favored) ;  some  were  in  flounced  clear 
muslin  with  sashes,  but  most  in  light-colored 
indienne  and  percaline.  They  were  generally 
very  quiet :  a  few,  who  made  themselves  con- 
spicuous, came,  I  was  told,  from  Paris  and  Ver- 
sailles. The  men  danced  with  their  hats  on 
(lest  in  that  mixed  assemblage  there  might  be 
some  unscrupulous  characters),  in  good  time, 
executing  their  steps  very  carefully,  and  with 
great  energy,  but  with  an  entire  absence  of 
lightness  and  grace.  They  rushed,  stamped, 
kicked,  and  figured  about  till  the  effect  was 
perfectly  grotesque. 

At  last,  to  my  joy,  the  long  quadrille  was 
ended ;  there  was  a  rest.  Another  began  to 
form,  and  then  the  tall  young  Hippolyte  ap- 
proaches, takes  off  his  hat,  makes  a  low  bow, 
and  murmurs  a  few  words  with  the  respectful 
empressement  of  French  gallantry.  He  offers 
his  arm ;  Honorine  is  too  shy  or  too  pleased 
to  say  any  thing;  but  she  blushes  and  smiles, 
and  is  led  off,  looking  modestly  happy.  And 
now  I  am  at  leisure  to  notice  the  rest,  and  chat 
over  balls  in  general,  and  this  in  particular, 
with  the  three  Gerard  ladies,  who  have  just 
come  in. 

Among  the  spectators  was  the  archbishop's 


FBIENDS  AND  FETES.  299 

negro  servant,  whom  the  old  women  of  the 
village  facetiously  called  M.  le  Blanc ;  he  stood 
up  tall,  conspicuously  black,  and  even  more 
conspicuously  ugly.  He  was  very  much  at 
his  ease,  talking  and  playing  the  fine  gentle- 
man. They  offered  to  introduce  him  to  a 
damsel  in  want  of  a  partner,  but  he  answered 
magnificently,  "  Soyez  tranquilles ;  je  ne  veux 
pas  danser,"  and  continued  his  discourse.  Then 
there  was  a  demi-monsieur,  as  Lucile  with  much 
disapprobation  pronounced  him,  mustached  and 
bearded,  with  a  gold  chain,  full  of  airs,  and 
dancing  disagreeably — probably  a  Paris  com- 
mis-marchand.  M.  le  Tailleur  was  there,  tall 
and  large,  in  a  gray  wide-awake,  and  gray  coat 
and  trowsers,  as  his  manner  is,  dancing  very 
joyously,  and  a  great  deal  with  his  pretty  lit- 
tle wife.  I  watched  to  see  how  Honorine  per- 
formed, and  soon  recognized  her,  looking  all 
modest,  natural  reserve,  dancing  quietly  and 
well,  and  no  way  .conspicuous,  save  for  good 
behavior.  I  was  amused,  in  the  intervals  of 
the  dances,  to  see  the  young  men  whispering 
and  flirting,  and  admiring  their  partner's  bou- 
quets, just  as  they  do  in  salons.  But  the  pret- 
tiest sight  was  that  of  half  a  dozen  children, 
Augustine  among  them,  in  the  white  frocks  of 
the  morning,  and  their  pretty  little  caps,  dan- 


800  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO. 

cing  in  the  glee  of  their  heart  spontaneous 
dances  invented  by  themselves. 

Mademoiselle  Lucile  has,  as  she  owns,  the 
true  French  passion  for  dancing.  She  was 
never  regularly  taught  till  last  winter,  though 
her  sister  and  she  had  learned  the  polka  step 
merely  from  seeing  it  once  danced  by  bears  on 
the  stage.  I  complimented  her  on  the  distin- 
guished grace  she  must  have  acquired  from 
her proj esseur,  M.  l'Ours.  She  has  not  yet  been 
to  any  balls,  and  indeed  at  seventeen  there  is 
time  before  her. 

We  went  away  when  the  room  grew  hot, 
and  the  dancing  furious.  Honorine  returned 
at  two  o'clock,  after  an  evening  of  much  suc- 
cess, having  danced  four  times  with  the  young 
mason,  besides  having  promised  two  others  for 
the  next  evening,  which  was  to  close  the  fete. 
She  highly  disapproved  of  the  manners  of  the 
town  importations,  and  said  she  never  went 
to  public  balls  at  Paris  because  of  these  mail- 
vaises  habitudes,  which  there  could  not  be  es- 
caped from. 

Some  time  after  the  fete  of  St.  Eustache, 
Honorine  told  us  of  a  boil  de  noces  that  was  to 
take  place  in  the  village.  The  occasion  was 
the  marriage  of  Mademoiselle  Allard,  daughter 
to  the  aubergiste  of  L'filtoile  du  ISTord,  to  an  ar- 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  301 

chitect  of  Paris.  The  bride,  who  has  delighted 
Honorine  and  Louise  with  a  special  invitation, 
is  a  pretty  girl  of  eighteen  ;  she  has  had  many 
offers,  but  prefers  this  one,  and  has  made,  we 
are  told,  a  regular  love-match,  that  wonder  and 
joy  of  all  French  female  hearts.  Now  came 
a  toilet  anxiety;  at  a  wedding -ball  it  is  de 
rigueur  for  a  demoiselle  to  wear  white  muslin. 
Honorine  is  too  good  a  Frenchwoman  to  think 
of  violating  the  convenances;  but  she  has  no 
white  muslin  dress,  and  no  time  to  buy  and 
make  up  one.  I  consulted  Mademoiselle  Ge- 
rard, and  resolved  to  do  what  she  proposed  for 
Louise  —  to  lend  a  muslin  skirt  for  the  occa- 
sion. Never  was  offer  more  welcome,  or  more 
gratefully  accepted,  Honorine  explaining,  with 
true  French  tact,  that  the  invitation  was  a  com- 
pliment to  us,  as  they  scarcely  knew  her,  and 
she  wished  to  do  us  credit  on  the  occasi6n. 

But,  alas !  next  day  came  a  letter  summon- 
ing Honorine  to  her  dying  mother  in  Picardy. 
It  was  dictated  by  the  poor  woman,  and  was 
as  follows : 

"  Ma  cheke  Fille,—  Je  te  souhaite  le  bon- 
jour  et  en  meme  temps  pour  m'informer  de  ta 
sante.  Quant  a  moi,  il  faut  me  lever  a  deux 
et  me  coucher  a  deux ;  voila  quinze  jours  que 


302  TWENTY  YEAliS  AGO. 

cela  m'a  pris.  Ma  pauvre  fille,  je  suis  dans 
une  triste  position.  Ma  pauvre  Honorine,  si 
tu  voulais  venir  me  voir  avant  de  mourir,  cela 
me  ferait  un  plaisir  sensible,  surtout,  ma  pau- 
vre fille,  je  voudrais  te  voir  avant  de  mourir, 
car  je  suis  dans  une  triste  position.  Eien  a 
te  dire  pour  le  moment  que  des  compliments ; 
surtout,  ma  fille,  viens,  je  t'en  supplie. 

"  Josephine  Kosier." 

So  here  ended  poor  Honorine's  expected 
fete ;  she  went  off  tearful  but  quiet,  thinking 
of  us,  and  arranging  things  for  us,  even  amidst 
the  hurry  of  her  departure.  Lucile  candidly 
wished  that  the  letter  had  come  a  day  later, 
that  the  poor  girl  might  have  had  her  ball 
first,  especially  as  Louise,  unless  she  can  get 
some  other  companion,  will  not  go.  French- 
women of  all  classes  are,  it  appears,  exceeding- 
ly particular  about  proper  chaperonage.. 

On  coming  in  from  a  walk  we  were  invited 
by  Madame  Allard  to  step  in  and  see  the  wed- 
ding dinner  and  the  bride.  The  latter  was 
seated  at  a  little  table  apart,  with  the  bride- 
groom, his  friend,  and  her  demoiselle  cPhonneur, 
while  at  the"  large  table  they  were  singing 
songs.  She  looked  pretty  in  her  bridal  dress, 
as  well  as  extremely  frightened. 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  .  303 

Honorine  came  back  in  a  day  or  two  in 
mourning,  for  her  mother  was  dead.  She  was 
much  subdued,  and  had  lost  all  vivacity  of 
manner,  but  she  set  to  work  in  her  usual  in- 
defatigable way. 

The  first  subject  in  our  present  world  in 
which  she  began  to  express  again  some  inter- 
est was  poor  Zelie,  who  had  been  to  me  always 
an  interesting  and  touching,  though  rather  un- 
known, personage.  She  was  the  wife  of  the 
ex-gardener,  who,  having  acquired  a  general 
character  for  drinking,  incurring  debts,  quar- 
relling, and  giving  offense,  had  been  dismissed; 
but,  as  they  had  for  the  present  no  situation, 
M.  Charlier  allowed  them  to  inhabit  the  little 
unused  building,  called  the  manege,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  prairie.  Most  of  the  young  women 
about  here  have  a  melancholy,  suffering  ex- 
pression, but  Zelie's  is  that  of  despondency. 
She  is  a  small,  delicate  figure,  with  a  pale- 
brown  face ;  always  at  work,  always  quiet, 
keeping  to  herself,  smiling,  gently  with  that 
meek,  sad  face  when  spoken  to,  and  answering 
in  a  sweet,  low  voice,  very  unlike  the  usual 
tones  of  her  class,  and  especially  those  of  her 
boisterous  husband.  When  first  I  saw  her  I 
thought  she  was  one  whose  lot  in  life  had 
been  blighted,  and  Honorine  says  that  she  was 


304  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

forced  five  years  ago  to  marry  this  man,  and 
bad  never  been  happy  since. 

I  asked  if  she  had  loved  another ;  Honorine 
did  not  know,  but  thought  it  likely,  because 
she  had  once  heard  her  say,  "  It's  a  great  mis- 
fortune to  love,  because  sometimes  one  does 
not  marry  the  person  one  loves,  but  picks  up 
somebody  one  does  not  love  —  and  then  one 
is  mal  mariee"  She  looks  older  than  she  is, 
"a  cause,"  says  Honorine,  "de  ses  chagrins." 
Heaven  forgive  me!  but  when  the  other  day 
her  husband  fell  from  the  cherry-tree  and  lay 
a  moment  stunned  on  the  ground,  though  she 
ran  up  and  stood  gravely  and  silently  looking 
at  him,  it  did  cross  my  mind — I  knew  not  why 
— that  it  would  not  be  her  worst  misfortune  if 
that  fall  set  her  free  from  her  wedded  state,  and 
that  perhaps  she  thought  so  too.  Anyhow, 
her  conduct  is  irreproachable ;  she  lives  only 
for  her  duties,  and  one  never  catches  "  un  mot 
plus  haut  qu'un  autre." 

Poor  thing!  she  has  no  children  to  console 
her ;  instead  of  which  she  takes  great  care  of 
the  animals,  who  are  her  constant  society.  The 
other  day,  seeing  the  door  of  the  cottage  where 
they  then  lived  open,  and  no  one  visible,  I 
fooked  in  ;  it  was  so  beautifully  clean,  so  still, 
empty,  and  peaceful,  with  the  large  fire-place, 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  305 

the  neat  curtained  bed,  the  clean  brick  floor, 
the  few  tables  and  chairs  so  well  arranged. 
As  I  stood  admiring,  a  voice  asked  me  if  I 
wanted  any  thing,  and  there,  at  the  window 
behind  the  door,  sat  Zelie  working,  and  there 
probably  she  had  been  working  for  hours,  in 
the  only  enjoyment  which  her  weary  body  and 
spirit  seemed  to  seek — rest  and  calm. 

Zelie's  sad  story  dwelt  in  my  mind,  and  I 
went  to  visit  her  in  her  wretched  quarters — the 
manege.  This  building  consisted  of  a  square 
stone  tower,  very  ruinous,  of  which  the  ground- 
floor  was  a  large,  dreary,  dark  room,  earthen- 
floored,  with  naked  stone  walls,  and  a  few 
arched  grated  holes  for  windows.  Here  once 
was  the  windlass  which,  turned  by  a  horse, 
conveyed  the  water  from  a  tank  close  by  up 
to  the  house,  but  now  the  over-toiled  horse 
was  dead,  and  a  woman  fetched  it. 

I  began  to  ascend  the  dark,  steep,  narrow, 
broken  stairs,  to  which  there  seemed  no  end, 
without  coming  to  any  thing,  till,  from  the  very 
top,  I  heard  Zelie's  voice.  She  welcomed  me 
to  the  shabby  loft,  turned  by  her  neat  arrange- 
ment of  their  furniture  into  a  bedroom ;  but 
she  said  that  it  was  very  triste  all  alone  there, 
that  she  heard  the  wind  all  night,  and  that  it 
made  her  head  ache.  Her  husband  is  much 
D 


306  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

given  to  staying  out  all  night,  and  so  she  is 
left  to  the  solitude  of  her  own  sad  thoughts, 
which,  unoccupied  as  she  is  now,  must  be  ter- 
rible. I  invited  her  to  come  up  and  sit  with 
Honorine  in  the  evening,  and,  seeing  a  pretty 
book  on  the  table,  which  she  said  had  been 
lent  her  by  the  young  Julie,  I  determined  to 
add  to  her  store.  She  said  she  was  extremely 
fond  of  reading,  and  had  plenty  of  time  for  it 
now.  There  was  not  the  least  complaining  in 
her  manner ;  she  seemed  to  like  the  visit,  and 
thanked  me  much. 

To  vary  to  a  livelier  subject — there  was 
soon  another  wedding  in  the  village,  which,  of 
course,  Honorine  begged  us  to  come  and  see 
with  her.  It  was  that  of  a  young  man  named 
Brou,  son  to  our  porteuse  oVeau,  whose  sister 
has  married  the  village  tailor,  nephew  to  the 
cure;  the  bride  is  Eenee,  nursery-maid  in  a 
bourgeois  family  of  Montbrun,  with,  as  it  hap- 
pened, no  connections  at  all,  being  an  enfant 
trouvee,  whose  parents  had  never  been  discover- 
ed. It  was  not  a  grand  affair,  and  there  were 
to  be  no  noces — that  is  to  say,  no  dinner  and 
ball. 

On  arriving  at  the  little  Place,  we  found 
that  the  wedding  party  were  inside  the  mairie, 
getting  through  the  previous  civil  marriage; 


FEIENDS  AND  FETES.  307 

we  waited  therefore  at  the  door.  There  was 
a  long  delay  at  the  mairie,  owing  to  difficulty 
in  finding  papers,  the  usual  preliminary  for- 
mula— which  makes  the  civil  marriage  in  Par- 
is a  very  short  affair — not  having  been  gone 
through.  This  was  owing,  not  only  to  provin- 
cial awkwardness,  but  to  difficulties  made  by 
the  father,  who  disliked  the  match,  and  would 
now  do  nothing  to  help  it — all  out  of  pure  me- 
chancete,  it  was  said. 

The  young  man  came  out  and  ran  off  to  fetch 
some  paper  or  other.  "  Voyez!  il  pleure,"  said 
Honorine :  "  c'est  parce  que  son  pere  a  fait  des 
difficultes ;  ce  raariage  ne  s'arrangera  pas  vite." 
He  was  a  gentle,  quiet,  rather  timid-looking 
young  man,  with  smooth  straight  black  hair,  a 
black  coat,  and  a  red-  rose  at  his  button-hole. 
We  criticised  the  color  of  his  coat ;  the  Char- 
liers'  maid -servant,  who  had  joined  us,  a  fat, 
fair,  vicious -looking  young  creature,  shutting 
one  eye  languishingly,  and  munching  some- 
thing, after  her  invariable  custom,  gave  her 
vote  peremptorily  for  black,  as  the  most  distin- 
gue. I  liked  the  young  man's  appearance,  but 
it  seems  he  is  in  some  disrepute,  having  re- 
fused to  pay  a  wager  of  five  francs  which  he 
had  lost  to  another  young  man  of  the  village 
on  the  subject  of  his  marriage — a  "  vrai  scan- 


308  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

dale,"  as  Honorine  remarked.  The  wager 
took  place  at  the  fete  of  St.  Eustache,  whither 
Eenee  the  bride  had  come,  and  there  first  made 
acquaintance  with  young  Brou. 

At  last  the  bridal  cortege  began  to  assemble. 
The  bridegroom's  two  sisters,  round  -  faced 
country  maidens,  blooming  and  smiling,  saucy 
and  coquettish,  in  white  jaconet,  blue  sashes, 
and  lace  caps,  appeared,  carrying  a  banner 
with  a  pictured  Virgin  upon  it;  this  was  for 
the  bride.  Then  came  the  bedeau,  in  grande 
tenue!  the  new  black  coat,  gay  cane,  cocked 
hat,  great  steel  chain,  gold  ear-rings  embellish- 
ing a  face  of  most  grotesque  ugliness.  He  car- 
ried a  banner,  inscribed  "St.  Eustache."  The 
saucy  maidens  teased  him  incessantly,  criticis- 
ing every  thing  he  did*,  and  mocking  at  him 
unmercifully,  he  opposing  to  them  a  face  and 
manner  so  ridiculously  angry  as  must  have 
much  encouraged  them  to  go  on.  They  chief- 
ly abused  the  way  he  carried  his  banner,  man- 
aging their  own  with  active  rustic  grace,  and 
looking  very  piquantes  in  their  scornful  liveli- 
ness and  confidence. 

And  now  the  wedding  party  was  under  way 
— -bride  and  bridegroom  hand -in -hand  with 
lifted  arms,  he  taking  tender  care  of  the  bride's 
veil.     She  was  in  a  white  robe,  with  a  long 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  309 

white  veil  and  wreath  of  orange-buds,  but,  oh 
grief!  she  was  old  for  a  Frenchwoman — that 
is  to  say,  twenty-five,  plain  and  homely,  with  a 
thick  figure,  a  broad  face,  red,  not  blushing, 
trying  to  get  up  an  air  of  becoming  bashful- 
ness,  and  looking  all  the  worse  for  her  tight 
finery.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  knelt  at 
the  altar  before  two  great  tapers ;  the  rest  of 
the  party  sat  round.  There  was  the  gray- 
haired  maire;  one  of  the  sisters,  as  demoiselle 
oVhonneur;  and,  curiously  enough,  the  bride- 
groom's father  and  mother,  who  have  long 
been  separated,  now  met,  but  sat  apart.  I 
knew  the  father  at  once  by  his  face  and  bear- 
ing ;  he  sat  at  the  farther  end,  not  in  the  circle 
round  the  altar,  never  once  looking  at  the  bri- 
dal pair,  with  a  hard,  surly,  contemptuous  face, 
that  never  changed  nor  smiled.  His  wife,  a 
good,  hard-working  creature,  told  us  once  that 
he  had  mange  all  they  had,  and  driven  her  out- 
of-doors  by  force  of  his  betises,  which  had  beg- 
gared his  family.  The  bride  wept  much  ;  the 
bridegroom  also  was  moved ;  the  gay  sisters 
kept  on,  even  there,  persecuting  the  unfortu- 
nate bedeau  in  a  sly  way — for  example,  when 
he  was  folding  up  the  canopy  which  he  had 
held  over  the  heads  of  the  pair,  which  they 
evidently  thought  he  was  doing  very  badty. 


310  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

The  service  was  wonderfully  long  and  dull, 
though  the  marriage  ceremony  itself  was  short; 
the  priest  addressed  them  as  monsieur  and 
mademoiselle,  the  ring  was  given  and  put  on, 
and,  after  nearly  two  hours'  endurance,  they 
went  into  the  sacmtie  to  finish  there,  and  we 
took  our  departure. 

I  had  wished  the  bridegroom  a  fairer  and 
more  winning  lady-love,  but  the  history  Hono- 
rine  gave  afterwards  took  off  from  his  attrac- 
tions. It  seems  that,  besides  refusing  to  pay 
his  wager,  he  had  still  more  exasperated  the 
same  young  man  by  having  "  dit  de  gros  pro- 
pos  au  sujet  de  Mademoiselle  Louise"  (the  Ge- 
rards'  bonne),  whom  he  had  sneered  at  as  a  cook : 
"  chose  ridicule,"  says  Honorine,  with  much  es- 
prit de  corps,  "when  all  the  world  knows  that 
^  cuisiniere  is  much  more  distinguee*  than  a 
bonne  d'enfants,  as  Eende  had  been." 

Moreover,  he  had  even  had  the  bad  taste 
to  ridicule  Julie's  personal  appearance,  on  ac- 
count of  her  embonpoint  —  and  this  the  other 
young  man  could  not  stand.  So  young  Brou 
was  kicked,  knocked  down,  struck  on  the  face, 
which  latter  was  so  abime  that  he  was  obliged 
to  keep  his  bed  two  days;  and  all  this  hap- 
pened six  days  before  the  wedding,  and  in  the 
Place  before  all  the  world,  so  that  pretre,  maire. 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  311 

and  garde-champitre  had  to  interpose  and  sepa- 
rate the  combatants.  The  victor  would  have 
gone  to  prison  but  for  his  superior  position 
and  character,  which  influenced  people  in  his 
favor. 

"It  seems,'7  said  I,  with  a  wonderful  flash  of 
sagacity,  "  that  this  young  man  is  a  lover  of 
Mademoiselle  Louise's." 

"  Justement,  mademoiselle;  c'est  son  amou- 
reux." 

"Qui  est-il  done?"  was  the  next  demand. 

Honorine  laughed,  colored  excessively,  and 
would  only  reply,  "  C'est  un  jeune  homme  du 
village." 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  his  name ;  but  I  shall 
soon  learn  it." 

"  C'est  possible,"  she  said,  laughing  and  col- 
oring still  more ;  and  no  doubt  was  left  on  my 
mind  that  the  champion  was  the  young  village 
hero,  Hippolyte  Langlois.  I  should  not  have 
expected  such  fiery  elans  from  that  gentle, 
smiling  face;  but  where  there  is  so  much 
brightness  and  honesty,  spirit  can  not  be  want- 
ing. I  suspect  young  Brou's  spite  to  have 
been  the  fruit  of  a  rejection  by  the  fair  Louise. 
The  young  men  are  of  the  same  trade,  but 
while  Langlois  works  here  under  his  father, 
the  master-mason,  Brou  works  for  some  one 


312  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

at  Versailles.  A  beaten  bridegroom  is  not  an 
imposing  figure,  and  certainly  the  young  man 
looked  as  if  conscious  of  humiliation. 

"Did  you  remark," said  Honorine,  present- 
ly, "how  pale  M.  le  Curd  was?  C'est  que  lui 
aussi,  il  a  ete  frappe;  un  autre  jeune  homme, 
de  Montbrun,  a  dit  des  betises  sur  cette  de- 
moiselle (la  mariee)  et,  ce  qui  est  pis,  sur  ses 
maitres.  Alors  M.  le  Cure  lui  a  fait  une  bonne 
remontrance ;  mais,  au  lieu  de  se  soumettre,  il 
a  pris  M.  le  Cure  par  le  devant  de  sa  soutane 
et  l'a  pousse  dans  l'estomac.  Some  think," 
continued  Honorine,  whose  bias  is  evidently 
against  the  bridegroom,  the  cure,  and  their  set, 
"that  it  does  not  become  a  priest  to  mix  in 
quarrels,  that  his  only  business  is  in  the  church 
or  the  house;  for  me,  I  know  nothing  of  it, 
but  I  find  it  very  ill-mannered  to  strike  a  priest 
like  that."  Poor  little  M.  le  Cure  !  No  doubt 
his  personal  appearance  and  his  humble  con- 
nections do  not  inspire  much  respect,  but  I  am 
sorry  he  should  be  beaten. 

There  is  to-night  a  little  dance  at  the  Mere 
du  Bois,  but  wind  and  rain  deter  us,  nor  is 
Honorine  eager  to  go,  seeing  that  the  young 
mason  will  not  be  there.  I  told  her  plainly 
who  I  suspected  the  nameless  young  man  to 
be,  and  she  acknowledged  it  very  gayly. 


FRIENDS  AND  FETES.  313 

"So  then  he  is  Louise's  admirer?  But, 
Honorine,  I  thought  he  was  a  little  yours  ?" 

"Oh  non,  mademoiselle,  il  ne  Test  pas;  je 
n'ai  jamais  eu  cette  pretention — et  que  voulez- 
vous?  Mademoiselle  Louise  a  6te  ici  deux 
ans,  et  ce  n'est  pas  pour  moi,  la  derni£re-venue, 
de  lui  enlever  ses  bons  amis." 

"  Mais  quelquefois,  9a  arrive  sans  que  l'on 
s'en  doute." 

"Oui,  mademoiselle,  s'il  m'aime,  je  ne  puis 
pas  l'empecher,  mais  je  ne  ferais  rien  pour  le 
detacher  (Telle." 

All  this  conversation  was  evidently  highly 
pleasing  to  the  girl,  so  that  I  remained  a  little 
in  doubt  as  to  how  matters  really  stood.  I 
confess  my  reason  rather  resisted  the  idea  that 
Honorine  had  carried  it  against  the  much  pret- 
tier and  younger  Louise. 

Enough  for  the  present  of  village  gossip.  I 
must  return  a  little  to  Sibyl  and  myself. 


314  TWEXTY   YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

AUTUMN  DAYS. 

WE  came,  as  I  have  said,  to  this  summer 
nest  of  Les  Eosiers,  expecting  and  in- 
tending to  find  our  life  very  retired,  and  to  de- 
pend on  our  own  resources.  For,  besides  that 
society,  there  was  next  to  none  around  us,  and 
we  were  not  rich  enough  to  entertain,  except 
in  very  moderate  degree.  The  Paris  world,  at 
least  our  Paris  world,  was  generally  flown,  to 
the  Pyrenees,  to  England,  to  Switzerland — in 
a  hundred  different  directions. 

At  first,  however,  especially  when  Horace 
was  with  us — and  a  great  comfort  and  aid  was 
the  presence  of  that  good,  grave  man  to  us — 
our  quiet  weeks  were  broken  every  now  and 
then  by  a  guest  for  the  day  or  the  night ;  and 
I,  for  my  part,  was  very  happy.  Alone  or 
with  visitors,  every  day  of  that  new  life  was 
to  me  like  a  page  of  a  novel,  traced  by  sum- 
mer sunbeams  on  a  green  ground,  and  I  won- 
dered that  Sibyl  did  not  seem  to  feel  as  I  did. 
She  who  had  cared  so  moderately  for  Paris 
gayeties,  who  I  knew  so  dearl}T  loved  fresh  air 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  315 

and  trees  and  flowers,  why  did  she  seem — not 
exactly  unhappy,  but  a  little  triste  and  dis- 
traite? 

Our  most  frequent  guests  for  the  first  month 
or  two  were  M.  £mile,  who,  as  a  near  connec- 
tion, had  a  kind  of  right  to  come,  but  whose 
military  duties  necessarily  left  large  intervals 
between  his  visits ;  and  another,  a  very  differ- 
ent person,  the  handsome  Marquis  de  Cleri- 
mont,  whom  I  mentioned  as  an  acquaintance 
out  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  In  Paris 
our  intercourse  had  been  very  slight,  but  it 
turned  out  that  he  had  a  chateau  some  ten 
miles  off,  and  used  consequently  to  ride  over 
to  us  every  now  and  then  on  some  pretext  or 
other. 

I  confess  Emile's  visits  were  much  more  in- 
teresting to  me,  whatever  they  were  to  Sib}7!. 
It  was  with  agreeable  expectation  that  I  used, 
from  the  great  walnut-tree  at  the  top  of  the 
prairie,  to  look  out  for  him  entering  by  the 
little  gate  in  the  wall,  and  quickly  ascending 
through  the  orchard  to  our  breezy  seat.  He 
brought  with  him  a  thousand  piquant  sensa- 
tions: fresh  from  the  world  we  had  forsaken, 
and  from  the  strenuous  and  vivid  interests  of 
a  larger  and  more  busy  life,  he  yet  threw  him- 
self intensely  into  our  innocent  country  do- 


316  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

ings.  Our  custom  was  to  loiter  through  the 
hot  bright  hours  in  the  garden,  under  the 
shade  of  the  lime  and  catalpas,  we  making  use 
of  him  to  gather  the  forbidden  roses  and  jessa- 
mines, which  he,  a  privileged  favorite,  dared 
do,  without  rebuke.  Or  we  rested  in  the  large, 
airy  drawing-room,  when  Sibyl  would  some- 
times sing  and  play,  and  I  paint  flowers,  and 
our  guest  talk  all  manner  of  talk,  literary, 
philosophic,  political ;  or  simply  poetic,  friend- 
ly, and  tender.  He  had  a  wonderful  store  of 
tales  drawn  from  real  life,  from  his  own  or 
other  people's  adventures,  mostly,  I  am  bound 
to  say,  of  a  tragic  description,  especially  those 
relating  to  love.  He  was  a  strange  character ; 
manly  as  he  was,  one  could  talk  to  him  as  if 
he  were  a  sister.  No  one  made  more  day- 
dreams out  of  the  flowers  and  sunshine  and 
songs  of  the  birds  than  he;  and  he  entered 
into  all  our  little  fancies  and  feelings  as  no 
Englishman,  unless  he  were  a  professed  poet 
or  a  very  young,  dreaming,  soft-hearted  man, 
could  do.  When  the  day  grew  cool  our  long 
rambles  began,  in  the  prairies,  through  the 
woods,  by  the  stream  in  the  valleys,  and  our 
sittings  on  our  favorite  birch-crowned  knoll 
from  gold  sunset  to  gray  twilight.  Or  we 
wandered  through  the  corn-fields,  and  he  gath- 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  317 

ered  the  flowers,  inhaled  with  delight  the  odor 
of  the  neighboring  pine-groves,  and  recalled 
the  days  of  his  childhood. 

Then  we  returned  to  a  late  tea,  and  after 
that  found  ourselves  again  in  the  orange-per- 
fumed garden,  under  the  moonlight,  strolling 
through  walks  and  bowers  of  alternate  light 
and  shade,  till,  perhaps,  it  was  too  late  for  him 
to  catch  the  night  train  back,  and  he  had  to 
put  up  with  a  little  room  on  the  second,  if  he 
could  get  it,  or  a  bed  at  the  "  jGtoile  3u  Nord." 

There  was  in  one  respect  a  change.  M. 
Emile  talked  a  great  deal  more  to  me  in  par- 
ticular. Whether  it  was  that  he  found  Sibyl 
inaccessible,  I  do  not  know,  but  she  certainly 
seemed  to  avoid  him  ;  at  any  rate,  she  devoted 
herself  mostly  to  her  little  May,  and  left  him 
quite  contentedly  to  me. 

In  consequence  of  this,  I  suppose,  I  never 
found  him  so  engaging  i  as  now.  He  talks 
more  seriously  and  confidentially  to  me  than 
he  used  to  do;  it  is  true  he  also  somewhat 
patronizes  me,  and  will  laughingly  call  me  en- 
fant in  all  the  condescending  scorn  of  his  six 
or  seven  more  years.  I  feel  him  justified,  for 
.there  is  a  grave  manliness  of  air  and  tone  of 
thought  growing  upon  him,  owing,  no  doubt, 
to  increased  professional  responsibility.      He 


318  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

has  lately  risen  —  by  force  of  necessity,  it 
seems,  not  favor  —  to  a  somewhat  higher,  at 
any  rate  a  more  active  and  anxious,  official  po- 
sition ;  and  the  habit  of  command  has  certain- 
ly come  upon  him. 

Besides  patronizing,  he  also  lectures  me  ;  we 
are  by  no  means  always  on  silk  and  velvet 
terms ;  our  weapons  of  national  and  personal 
warfare  are  sometimes  sufficiently  sharp,  and 
I  hear  dignified  reprimands  of  my  English  rai- 
deur  and 'prejudice,  and  hints  that,  from  my 
pride  and  obstinacy,  had  I  been  then  in  heav- 
en I  should  certainly  have  been  one  of  the  an- 
gels who  fell.  Nor  is  'the  habitual  mild  and 
quiet  manner  quite  invariable ;  he  will  some- 
times abuse  the  emperor,  and  even  his  own 
nation,  in  language  of  military  fervor,  and 
then  beg  pardon  for  his  energy,  and  own  that, 
though  he  says  such  things  himself,  he  should 
not  like  to  hear  ,them  from  a  foreigner. 

In  spite  of  these  occasional  vivacities,  how- 
ever, his  habitual  bearing  is  that  of  a  grave, 
though  subdued,  sadness,  far  more  decided  than 
ever  it  used  to  be,  which  is  accounted  for  by 
the  state  of  his  country  —  regarding  it,  as  he 
does,  as  that  of  final  and  hopeless  degradation. 
— and  of  his  own  professional  prospects.  Lov- 
ing his  profession  as  he  does,  he  continues  to 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  319 

serve ;  but  he  looks  forward  to  no  promotion, 
he  says,  nor  does  he  regret  it ;  the  second  of 
December  had  closed  his  personal  and  polit- 
ical future.  Few  careers,  he  observed  once, 
destined  to  so  early  and  complete  a  close,  had 
opened  more  promisingly.  While  still  quite 
young,  he  had  accepted  a  commission  which 
isolated  him  for  two  years  in  a  lonely  mount- 
ain district,  making  fortifications — a  work  of 
some  novelty  and  difficulty,  the  bestowal  of 
which  on  him  had  been  no  slight  compliment, 
and  which  it  was  expected  would  be  followed 
by  distinction  and  rapid  promotion  ;  but  he 
had  professional  enemies,  who  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  his  two  years'  absence  to  do  him 
mischief;  I  suppose  the  weapon  made  use  of 
was  the  Eepublicanism  which  the  young  mili- 
taire  had  always  frankly  avowed. 

In  spite  of  his  dash  of  melancholy,  however, 
his  visits  were  to  me  the  great  pleasure  of  our 
country  life,  the  chief  drawback  being  their 
uncertainty,  and  the  frequent  prolonged  ab- 
sence caused  by  his  military  duties,  and  his 
extreme  dislike  to  ask  favors  of  a  superior, 
who  would  very  likely  refuse  merely  for  the 
pleasure  of  refusing. 

Another  drawback,  to  me  at  least,  were  the 
visits  of  the  handsome  marquis.     Their  motive 


330  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

was  quite  obvious  :  the  attraction,  began  in  the 
soirees  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  had  deep- 
ened, and  the  determined  lady-killer  was  do- 
ing his  best  to  captivate  my  sister.  My  prej- 
udice against  him  was  such  that,  knowing  his 
reputation,,  and  always  finding  something  false 
and  hollow  in  his  soft  tones  and  sweet,  sad 
smiles,  I  could  hardly  give  him  credit  for  sin- 
cerity in  his  suit  to  Sibyl,  or  at  anyjate  for 
even  a  purpose  of  constancy.  But  I  am  bound 
to  say  he  acted  earnestness  in  a  way  that  might 
deceive  any  one;  I  thought,  too,  that  Sibyl 
was  attracted,  interested,  even  touched.  In 
her  slight  delicate  way  she  even  encouraged 
him ;  in  fact,  I  began,  with  infinite  dismay,  to 
surmise  that  she  would  in  time  love  him.  How 
could  this  be  ?  He  was  in  no  way  worthy  of 
her,  rank  and  prestige  apart :  though  his  con- 
versation had  a  certain  sparkle  and  charm,  his 
understanding  was  certainly  narrow  and  shal- 
low; and  as  to  his  heart,  I  was  very  sure  that 
he  had  none. 

I  said  to  myself  that  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved it  of  Sibyl.  I  knew  her  susceptibility 
to  personal  charms,  grace  of  manner,  and  pol- 
ished and  witty  conversation  ;  nor  was  a  brill- 
iant social  position  indifferent  to  her,  though 
she  was  the  most  disinterested  person  in  the 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  321 

world.  But  all  this  puzzled  me.  I  longed  to 
hint  a  remonstrance,  but  was  fairly  afraid  of 
doing  it;  nor  was  I  certain  that  I  understood 
Sibyl,  or  read  her  aright.  For  with  all  her 
artless,  almost  child-like,  frankness  on  some 
points,  there  were  others  on  which  her  reti- 
cence was  complete;  and  love  and  lovers,  as 
personal  to  herself,  were  among  these. 

It  was  most  of  all  annoying  when  the  mar- 
quis and  Emile  happened  to  make  their  vis- 
its together.  These  two  men  were  obviously 
quite  unsuitable,  and  did  not  like  each  other. 
The  marquis — the  crime  de  la  crime  of  aristoc- 
racy, whose  very  slight  Bourbonism  had  ac- 
commodated itself  to  the  present  state  of  things, 
with  his  calm,  high-born  pride  and  self-com- 
placence, his  elegant  epicurism  and  Lucretian 
sangfroid  —  and  £]mile,  the  flower  of  young 
Eepublicanism,  ideally  enthusiastic,  with  his 
dreams  of  devotion  to  cause  and  country,  his 
bitter  scorn  of  those  who  lived  for  "  inglorious 
ease,"  and  the  something  heroic  which  lay  sup- 
pressed, but  to  be  divined,  in  him — were  cer- 
tainly not  the  men  to  become  friends.  Not  to 
mention  that  two  Frenchmen,  in  the  society  of 
ladies  whom  each  strives  to  please,  are  seldom 
in  much  charity  with  each  other. 

All  then  used  to  go  on  as  disagreeably  as 
X 


322  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

possible ;  the  young  marquis  generally  en- 
grossed the*  conversation,  and  M.  flmile  was  si- 
lent and  scornful ;  unless,  as  presently  became 
his  usual  resort,  he  conversed  apart  with  me. 
Every  now  and  then  Lucile  was  with  us  on 
these  occasions,  and  her  bright  girlish  presence 
made  a  pleasant  diversion.  I  could  perceive 
that  she  liked  Emile  much  the  better  of  the 
two;  indeed  she  frankly  told  me  so  when  we 
were,  as  girls  will,  discussing  the  two  men.  I 
had  seen  once  her  look  of  bright  young  scorn 
when  the  sentimental  marquis  was  dilating  on 
la  coquelterie  as  the  most  truly  feminine  of  all 
the  feminine  attributes,  without  which  a  wom- 
an could  not  be  complete,  which  was  the  spring 
of  all  her  charms,  and  almost  all  her  virtues, 
etc.  She  told  me  afterwards  that  she  knew 
the  marquis  had  been  talking  "  des  betises," 
but  she  had  not  cared  to  express  any  opinion 
of  her  own  on  the  subject,  though  he  had  more 
than  once  appealed  to  her,  not  because  she 
minded  "lui  marcher  sur  les  pieds,"  but  be- 
cause "  la  coquetterie "  was  not  a  subject  for 
"les  jeunes  filles."  Of  M.  Simile  she  spoke 
much  more  respectfully  and  admiringly,  ob- 
serving, very  justly,  that  he  had  "le  regard 
doux  et  pur,"  and  adding  that  she  made  no 
scruple  of  praising  him  to  us,  because  he  was 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  323 

our  "  relation " — a  very  distant  one,  it  must 
be  owned,  seeing  that  he  was  only  the  cousin 
to  Sibyl's  stepsister-in-law. 

fimile,  meanwhile,  as  if  in  contrast  with  the 
marquis's  graceful  sentimentalism,  began  by 
fits  to  disclose  to  me  glimpses  of  fiery  abysses 
in  his  nature,  such  as  I  had  not  expected,  and 
which,  though  they  might  not  alarm  me  in  an 
Englishman,  yet  in  a  Frenchman,  considering 
all  that  I  knew,  and  more  that  I  did  not  know, 
excited  apprehension  together  with#  interest. 
In  discussions  on  moral  and  social  questions 
he  would  allow  too  much  to  passion,  almost 
justifying  even  a  crime  that  might  be  commit- 
ted under  its  influence ;  but  then  he  said  it 
must  be  such  a  passion  as  is  rarely  known  in 
life,  "qui  domine  toute  la  vie,"  which  is  felt 
but  once,  and  never  again.  I  knew  that  he 
was  wrong,  and  trusted  that  he  was  not  ex- 
pressing his  real  convictions,  the  more  so  that 
in  calmer  moods  he  expressed  himself  very  dif- 
ferently. A  profound  appreciation  of  the  ex- 
cellence of  purity,  of  domestic  happiness,  an 
ardent  looking  to  marriage  as  the  goal  of  his 
desires  and  the  completion  of  his  being,  and  an 
intense  aversion  to  the  unprincipled  laxity  of 
Parisian  society,  including  a  determination  to 
marry  only  one  who  had  been  brought  up  to 


324  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

regard  domestic  virtue  and  affection  as  all  in 
all,  were  his  leading  opinions  on  the  subject. 
These  were  so  often  and  strongly  expressed, 
sometimes  with  earnest  strenuousness,  some- 
times as  by  an  involuntary  betrayal,  and  ac- 
corded so  well  with  the  habitual  seriousness 
and  imaginative  refinement  of  his  whole  char- 
acter, that  one  could  not  possibly  suppose  that 
in  speaking  thus  he  was  but  suiting  his  con- 
versation to  his  hearer.  I  wished  I  could  fully 
understand  him. 

The  marquis,  who  seemed  bent  on  amusing 
us,  proposed  a  good  many  rides  and  drives  to 
explore  the  neighborhood,  in  all  of  which  M. 
Emile  declined  joining.  In  this  manner  we 
saw  the  palace  of  Versailles — a  good  specimen 
of  majestic,  symmetrical,  extensive  dullness 
outside,  a  vast,  splendid,  shining  world  of  halls, 
chambers,  galleries  within  ;  Port  Eoyal  —  a 
mere  handful  of  ruins  in  a  deep  wild  dell,  the 
hills  rising  like  walls  and  towers  to  cover  the 
once  sacred  spot,  where  skeletons  of  old  gate- 
ways, broken  pillars,  and  a  quiet  little  old 
dove-cote  alone  remain  of  the  ancient  convent 
and  chapel,  now  replaced  by  the  vine-trellised 
walls  and  thatched  roofs  of  the  little  farm- 
houses and  cottages;  La  Chevreuse — an  ex- 
quisite valley;  and  Les  Granges — the  home 


A  VTUMN  DA  YS.  325 

of  those  thoughtful  and  gifted  solitaires,  whose 
chambers  are  still  left  just  as  they  were. 

In  the  midst  of  these  pleasure  excursions 
Emile  vanished  from  the  scene.  He  was  dis- 
patched by  his  superiors  on  some  military  sur- 
vey in  a  distant  part  of  the  country,  and  could 
not  tell  us  how  long  it  would  be,  or  when  we 
should  see  him  again. 

In  our  last  parting  walk  he  was  in  a  mood 
of  melancholy  which  he  seemed  trying  to  con- 
ceal, or,  when  he  could  not  do  that,  to  disguise 
under  fits  of  gayety.  "When  I  asked  him  if 
he  would  prefer  one  direction  to  another  for 
our  walk,  he  answered  spiritlessly,  "Here  or 
anywhere ;  all  is  the  same  to  me ;  all's  right." 

"Or  all's  wrong?"  I  asked,  half  smiling. 

"  Yes,  all  wrong,"  he  answered,  as  spiritless- 
ly as  before. 

"  Every  thing  is  wrong  with  you  to-day,  I 
think,"  I  rejoined. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is,"  he  returned  quickly, 
and  seemed  about  to  add  more,  but  stopped. 

He  alluded  to  his  professional  non -prospects, 
and  when  I  suggested  his  throwing  all  up,  and 
leaving  France  for  some  more  hopeful  sphere, 
he  said,  u  No,  not  till  my  heart  is  quite  broken. 
So  long  as  I  have  a  gale,  and  my  sails  are 
not  torn  to  pieces,  I  must  go  on ;  there  will  be 


326  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

time  enough  afterwards  to  stagnate  in  har- 
"  bor." 

On  my  seeming  still  unsatisfied,  he  explain- 
ed that  no  profession  save  that  of  the  army 
was  open  to  him,  and  that  were  he  to  give  up 
his  commission,  it  would  be  to  quit  his  profes- 
sion forever,  and  lose  all  hope  of  ever  again 
serving  his  country  in  future,  even  under  a 
government  that  he  should  approve  of.  "Af- 
ter all,"  he  said,  "  I  consider  myself,  as  a  sol- 
dier, in  the  service  of  my  country,  not  of  the 
president;  I  am  known  to  profess  no  loyalty 
to  him,  and  to  be  entirely  aloof  from  politics. 
Should  any  iniquitous  work  be  required  of 
me,  I  am  free  to  resign,  and  find,  perhaps,  in 
retirement  and  literature  l'oubli  du  passd  et 
l'indifference  pour  l'avenir." 

The  marquis,  on  the  other  hand,  continued 
his  visits  at  the  rate  of  once  or  twice  a  week, 
till  he,  too,  was  summoned  away — by  some 
call  of  social  pleasure,  no  doubt.  But  he  ex- 
pressed intense  regret,  and  earnestly  solicited 
leave  to  renew  his  visits  when  this  brief  period 
of  enforced  exile  was  over.  Sibyl  gave  it  with 
her  usual  careless  ease,  and  I  felt  I  could  not 
read  her  feelings  at  that  moment. 

But  as  time  passed  on,  and  the  expected 
month  of  absence  was  over,  and  yet  the  ardent 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  327 

lover  made  no  sign,  I  noticed  in  Sibyl  a  fever- 
ish restlessness  quite  unlike  herself,  and  very 
painful  to  see.  It  made  my  heart  ache,  and  I 
almost  wished  for  a  renewal  of  the  visits  which 
had  alarmed  and  annoyed  me  before. 

Is  there  a  sadder  lot  than  to  be  condemned 
to  wait  in  vain?  How  can  a  man  ever  inflict 
such  torture  on  a  woman's  heart,  if  he  has  but 
the  merest  suspicion  that  he  has  gained  it? 
The  momentous  visit  has  been  paid,  and  leaves 
her  expecting  it  to  be  renewed ;  she  is  filled 
with  memories  as  yet  pleasantly  confused,  re- 
quiring time  and  quiet  to  think  over.  So  the 
week  passes  well,  and  the  day  of  hope  comes, 
bright,  sunshiny,  full  of  promise  and  dream. 
She  wakes,  feeling  her  heart  fresh  and  buoy- 
ant, she  puts  on  her  most  becoming  toilet,  she 
adds  a  flower  or  two,  she  arranges  the  room,  she 
flutters  about  winged  with  pleasant  thoughts, 
full  of  subdued  smiles. 

But  he  does  riot  come — she  is  disappointed 
and  damped ;  but  it  was  an  accident — a  day  is 
nothing  —  of  course  he  will  come  to-morrow. 
No,  he  does  not,  nor  the  day  after ;  time  comes 
and  goes,  she  is  kept  in  suspense  from  day  to 
day,  till  she.  is  surprised  to  find  how  many 
have  passed.  Still  she  finds  reasons  and  ex- 
planations, and  the  longer  the  delay  the  better 


328  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

reasons  she  finds ;  but  though  she  still  expects, 
the  spring,  the  charm  of  expectation,  is  broken. 
She  wearies  of  putting  on  her  pretty  dress,  of 
keeping  things  to  do  with  him,  of  treasuring 
up  things  to  say  to  him — things  that  now  seem 
mouldering  away  in  a  useless  heap  in  her  mind ; 
she  could  not  say  them  now — they  are  not  liv- 
ing, they  are  dead !  Sometimes  she  will  won- 
der, chide  him  in  her  heart,  determine  that  if 
he  comes  now  she  will  receive  him  coldly; 
but  all  this  resolution  is  thrown  away,  and 
leaves  her  so  depressed  and  worn  out  that  she 
is  much  more  likely  to  cry  than  to  practice 
that  dignified  indifference. 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  he  can  not  now 
undo  the  impression  of  his  long  absence;  the 
indifference  can  not  be  explained  away.  At 
first  she  had  consoled  herself  with  thinking  of 
all  the  tender  things  he  had  said,  the  tenderer 
ones  he  had  implied,  the  tenderest  of  all  that 
he  had  only  looked — and  she  had  felt  that  he 
had  loved  her.  But  the  longer  she  has  to 
think  of  them,  the  fewer  they  appear,  the  more 
doubtful  their  significance.  How  very  few 
and  slight  they  were,  after  all !  And  at  last, 
from  thinking  only  of  how  and  when  she 
should  repay  his  love,  she  has  come  to  think 
of  him  as  not  her  lover  at  all ! 


A  UTUMN  DA  Y&  329 

Nervous  and  weary,  she  can  not  employ 
herself;  mortified  pride  and  shame  and  de- 
spondency are  eating  her  heart's  core.  Days 
are  like  years;  she  is  growing  old  without 
him !  She  looks  no  longer  into  her  future ; 
all  is  blankness  and  grayness  there.  And 
while  she,  shut  up  in  a  dreary  country  house, 
with  no  change,  no  movement,  pines  for  the 
sight  of  one  person,  he  is  occupied,  amused,  in 
the  world,  free  to  come  and  see  her — and  he 
never  comes. 

Some  divination  told  me  that  this,  or  some- 
thing like  this,  was  passing  in  Sibyl's  secret 
soul.  For  though  a  widow,  her  widowhood 
had  been,  I  now  knew,  one  of  those  saddest 
griefs  of  all,  a  loss  which  is  not  a  heart-break.* 
Married  at  sixteen,  and  her  husband  dying 
immediately  after,  little  May,  a  posthumous 
child,  was  the  sweetest  and  almost  the  only 
trace  her  brief  wedded  life  had  left  behind. 
She  loved  now — I  was  sure  of  it — but  she 
kept  it  to  herself,  and  would  not  let  her  sad- 
ness cloud  others.  She  was  still  sweet  and 
kindly  as  ever,  played  with  her  little  girl,  who 
grew  and  bloomed  marvellously  in  this  pure 
sweet  air,  exerted  herself  to  talk  cheerfully 
with  me,  and  made  herself  the  favorite  of  the 
whole  village. 


330    •  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

Once  more  Simile  came  to  see  us,  unexpect- 
edly, and  when  we  had  ceased  to  look  for  him, 
in  the  mid-autumn.  He  staid  but  a  few  hours, 
and  struck  me  as  altogether  and  strangely 
changed.  To  us  personally  he  was  courteous 
and  gentle  as  ever,  but  on  all  other  points  a 
gloomy  and  bitter  cynicism  overwhelmed  him. 
The  state  of  politics,  to  which  he  just  once  al- 
luded with  almost  fierce  despair,  and  his  own 
prospects,  seemed  to  have  finally  conquered 
that  once  bright  temperament.  He  told  us  of 
the  hostility  of  his  chef  immediate  a  man  who 
had  identified  himself  with  the  present  regime, 
and  would  therefore  indulge  in  the  rancor  he 
had  always  felt  against  a  proud,  not  very  sub- 
missive, and  avowedly  Eepublican  subordinate. 
This  enmity  had  reached  a  point — so  he  was 
privately  informed  by  friends — which  threat- 
ened him  with  serious  danger ;  at  the  least,  his 
professional  career  might  be  crushed,  and  him- 
self banished  into  obscurity.  But  he  laughed 
scornfully  over  it  all,  and  said  he  had  by  this 
time  attained  to  such  a  fortunate  apathy  that 
if  he  were  to  hear  that  the  ruler  of  the  country 
were  dead  (uet  Dieu  sait,"  he  coolly  interject- 
ed, " si  je  l'aime")  it  would  not  make  his  pulse 
beat  quicker.  This  indifference  seemed  to  ex- 
tend to  every  thing,  and  I  doubted  if  he  any 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  331 

longer  cared  for  us.  It  pained  me  to  see  him 
so  changed;  but  Sibyl  seemed  to  notice  noth- 
ing. I  feared  it  was  because  her  thoughts 
were  engrossed  in  the  Marquis  de  Clerimont. 

When  iSmile  left,  I  said,  with  a  faint  hope  of 
extracting  something  more  definite  and  friend- . 
ly,  "  Shall  we  see  you  in  Paris  this  winter?" 

"Who  knows?  I  do  not,"  he  answered, 
abruptly. 

"But  you  intend  to  be  there,  do  you  not?" 

"I" never  intend  any  thing;  I  do  not  care 
enough  about  what  becomes  of  me.'7  And  so 
we  parted. 

Left  to  ourselves,  there  seemed  a  kind  of - 
barrier  between  my  sister  and  me.  Sibyl's 
melancholy  did  not  appear  diminished;  she 
cared  for  nothing  but  little  May,  who,  ever 
bright,  active,  and  happy,  kept  up  glimpses  of 
the  sunny  past.  I  too  was  sad,  but  that  was 
my  own  affair ;  I  told  Sibyl  nothing  about  it. 
I  looked  anxiously  forward  to  the  return  to 
Paris,  which  I  hoped  might  rouse  her  from 
her  depression.  She  seemed  indifferent  to  the 
prospect. 

A  small  incident  occurred  to  vary  the  still- 
ness of  our  existence.  A  review  of  six  caval- 
ry regiments  took  place  on  the  plains  of  Sato- 
ry  (the  first  of  a  long  series  of  famed  Napole- 


332  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

onic  reviews  on  that  spot,  till  then  known  to 
me  only  for  its  profusion  of  apple-trees),  and 
the  soldiers  were  billeted  for  the  night  over 
the  neighborhood.  M.  Charlier's  share  con- 
sisted of  three  officers  and  six  soldiers,  as  well 
as  twelve  horses.  The  garden  was  soon  filled 
with  a  party  of  horsemen ;  a  young  officer 
rode  up,  billet  in  hand,  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  addressed  my  sister  in  the  usual  brusque, 
word-saving  style  of  his  class,  which  I  suppose 
originated  the  epithet  cavalier — "  Madame,  M. 
Charlier?" 

But  the  worthy  proprietor  was  gone  to  Paris, 
to  escape,  I  suppose,  his  compulsory  guests; 
so  they  had  to  arrange  with  his  respected  and 
grim  old  mother.  The  billets  de  logement  had 
been  made  out  by  the  maire;  the  business  was 
conducted  by  the  tall  bulky  marechal  des  logis, 
with  his  coarse  voice  and  bluff  manners.  He 
complained  that  there  was  not  room  for  the 
horses;  and  the  result  was  all  that  noise  and 
length  of  discussion  which  the  French  seem  to 
find  indispensable — every  body  coming  up  to 
join  in  it. 

Then  came  the  question — to  them,  I  imag- 
ine, a  most  important  one — their  dinner.  They 
coolly  asked  for  the  bill  of  fare,  which  they 
did  not  consider  satisfactory*     The  house  was 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  333 

not  provisioned  to  meet  the  vast  demands  of 
three  herculean  young  cavalry  officers — I  sus- 
pect the  deficiency  was  intentional — and  they 
wisely  determined  to  dine  at  Versailles.  I 
dare  say,  too,  they  felt  out  of  luck  at  being 
assigned  quarters  where  there  were  no  good 
fellows  nor  plies  dames  to  bear  them  company. 
We,  the  only  lodgers  in  the  house,  kept  re- 
ligiously to  our  own  apartments,  but  watched, 
at  a  respectful  distance,  the  stabling  of  horses, 
the  doffing  and  donning  of  uniforms,  the 
picketing  of  lances,  the  loud,  brief  calls  and 
gruff  voices  of  our  gallant  friends.  The  little 
Victor,  the  small  nephew  of  our  proprietaire, 
ran  about  among  them,  sharing  in  their  pro- 
ceedings with  that  serious  sympathy  and  sense 
of  partnership  felt  by  every  male  animal  in 
France,  of  the  smallest  size,  with  red  coats  and 
swords.  Once  or  twice  we,  too,  met  some  dra- 
goons riding,  and  were  abruptly  asked,  "  Par- 
don, madame — pouraller  a  St.  Marc?"  or  were 
saluted  at  the  door  by  the  three  young  officers, 
who  bowed  and  waved  their  caps  round  their 
heads  with  a  grave  extravagance  of  courtesy. 
They  are  handsome  youths,  with  brown  curl- 
ing mustaches  and  beards,  fair  fresh  faces,  and 
an  appearance  of  gay,  reckless  spirits. 
%  The  last  time  I  had  seen  any  great  number 


'334  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

of  French  military  was  at  the  coup  d'etat, 
when,  before  related,  several  regiments  of  cav- 
alry and  the  line  bivouacked  in  the  Champs 
Elysees.  I  must  confess,  though  one  is  re- 
minded by  such  scenes  of  the  capture  of 
towns,  that  these  formidable  beings  were  here 
very  tame  and  quiet,  and  seemed  not  to  have 
the  remotest  intention  to  egorger  little  Victor, 
or  insult  old  madame,  called  the  "  terrier." 

The  evening  was  spent  jollily  by  the  six 
privates  at  dinner  in  the  gardener's  cottage; 
the  officers,  I  presume,  were  no  less  jolly  at 
Versailles.  Honorine,  who  does  not  menager 
her  words,  unhesitatingly  pronounces  all  these 
rnilitaires  "tr&s  gourmands."  She  alone,  of 
all  the  bonnes  here,  has  not  found  it  necessary 
to  hold  any  intercourse  with  them.  One  very 
young  officer  was  quartered  all  alone  at  the 
Gerards',  the  family  being  absent,  and  the 
house  kept  by  an  old  gouvernante  and  Louise. 
The  poor  boy  found  it  so  dull  that  he  went 
to  bed  at  six  o'clock.  Louise,  however,  was 
charmed  with  his  pretty  face,  pronouncing  him 
an  "  amour  d'officier,"  and  with  his  politeness, 
for  he  expressed  much  regret  at  inconvenien- 
cing them. 

At  midnight  returned  our  friends  from  Ver- 
sailles in  an  excess  of  good  spirits.     They  had 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  335 

to  wait  long  at  the  door  before  it  was  unlock- 
ed, and  amused  themselves  with  talking  to  the 
kitten  and  the  gardener's  wife.  They  were 
not  at  all  tipsy,  but  simply  light-hearted,  chat- 
tering like  children,  and  laughing  at  nothing 
at  all. 

Next  morning  we  lost  our  guests;  a  soldier 
was  brushing  his  officer's  uniform  all  the  morn- 
ing outside  our  door,  and  talking  to  himself 
over  it;  and  finally  they  rode  forth,  giving 
the  last  bright  look  to  our  quiet  bowers,  as 
their  red  plumes,  polished  shakos,  the  shining 
lances  and  tricolor  flags,  and  the  dark-blue  uni- 
forms, with  white  sashes  and  facings,  glanced 
through  the  yellowing  shrubberies.  Little 
Victor  was  appropriately  solemn  as  he  looked 
his  last  at  those  who,  in  the  course  of  a  day 
and  night,  had  become  his  sworn  friends ;  and 
M.  Charlier,  who  had  reappeared,  in  his  wide- 
awake, with  his  broad  back  and  shoulders, 
flung  wide  open  the  porte-cochere  in  a  state  of 
very  genuine  satisfaction. 

In  the  intervals  of  such  manly  pleasures  as 
these,  little  Victor  condescended  to  cultivate 
me.  He  came  down  only  a  day  ago,  but,  be- 
ing no  shyer  than  most  French  children,  ap- 
proached our  window  at  once,  addressed  us  on 
the  subject  of  the  white  kitten,  furnished  his 


336  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

name,  age,  and  parentage,  and  promised  to  be 
an  excellent  friend  of  mine.  He  presently  in- 
quired what  I  was  going  to  do,  seemed  disap- 
pointed when  I  told  him  that  I  was  going  to  be 
very  busy,  and  finally  found  himself,  to  his  en- 
tire delight,  established  beside  my  table,  using 
my  paints  upon  the  men,  horses,  and  houses 
I  had  drawn  for  him,  and  making  all  manner 
of  wonderful  discoveries  in  the  science  of  col- 
or. While  busy  with  the  house,  he  asked  me 
to  " arranger"  for  him  "un  petit  paysage."  I 
said  I  should  not  have  time  to  do  it  that  morn- 
ing, whereon  he  shrewdly  observed,  "  You  can 
be  doing  it  now,  instead  of  looking  at  me,  while 
I  finish  the  house."  Finally  the  modesty  of 
true  genius  came  upon  him,  and  he  inquired, 
doubtfully,  "  Tout  ce  que  je  fais,  ce  n'est  qu'un 
barbouillement,  n'est-ce  pas  ?" 

Soon  after  he  brought  me  a  paper  of  pic- 
tures containing  the  history  of  Punch,  which 
he  read  to  me  very  fluently,  with  various  ju- 
dicious comments,  such  as,  when  I  observed, 
"You  see  this  wicked  Punch  would  not  let 
himself  be  punished,  but  hanged  the  bourreaa 
instead,"  "Pourquoi  non,"  he  asked,  "since 
the  executioner  was  going  to  hang  him?" 
u  Mais,"  he  observed,  finally,  with  great  satis- 
faction, "le  diable  etait  plus  fort  que  lui.^     A 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  337 

great  part  of  his  time  he  spent  in  playing  with 
our  little  May,  of  whom  he  was  passionately 
fond,  and  whom  he  patronized  with  all  the 
wisdom  of  six  years. 

The  young  Julie,  who  used  to  interest  me, 
seemed,  alas !  being  gradually  spoiled  by  her 
corrupt  elder  associates,  and  had  acquired  a 
bold  unchild-like  expression  in  her  once  inno- 
cent eyes.  Her  mother,  poor  woman  !  whom 
we  sometimes  met  in  the  prairie  on  the  watch 
for  her  worthless  husband's  return  from  Paris, 
complained  to  us  that  her  child  was  quite 
spoiled,  that  she  was  all  day  idling  with  bad 
companions,  that  her  father  let  her  do  just  as 
she  pleased,  and  that  she  had  learned  to  dis- 
regard and  disobey  her  mother.  About  this 
time  the  whole  party  left  finally  for  Paris,  and 
so  this  group  of  Bohemians  vanished  from  our 
path  of  life. 

Nothing  after  this  occurred  save  the  regular 
progress  of  defacement  and  decay  in  all  nature 
— yellowed  and  bare  trees,  weeping  skies  sheet- 
ed with  dusk  clouds,  wild  howling  winds,  that 
screamed  through  those  ill-secured  doors  and 
windows,  and  made  one  lie  drearily  awake  at 
night.  I  confess  I  looked  anxiously  forward 
to  a  return  to  that  bright  centre  of  life,  sump- 
tuous, sparkling,  bewitching  Paris.  We  pur- 
Y    . 


338  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

posed  to  be  there  by  the  end  of  November  if 
we  could  find  an  appartement.  The  only  one, 
I  suspected,  who  would  not  be  glad  to  leave 
was  Honorine,  who  led  here  a  very  agreeable 
life,  with  plenty  of  air,  exercise,  freedom,  and 
society,  especially  that  of  the  young  mason.  It 
seemed  he  had  now  fairly  settled  the  question 
between  her  and  Louise,  and  that  his  prefer- 
ence was  no  longer  doubtful.  Poor  Louise 
was  very  unhappy ;  her  once  smiling,  bloom- 
ing face  became  dark  and  sad.  "  Pauvre  fille," 
said  Honorine,  compassionately,  "  elle  est  bien 
troublee."  But  I  suppose  no  unfair  arts  had 
been  used  to  supplant  her,  as  the  friendship 
continued  undiminished,  and  Louise  was  as 
frequently  in  Honorine's  kitchen  as  ever,  till 
she  went  with  her  mmtres  to  Paris.  Honorine 
then  wandered  pensively  about,  carrying  the 
cat  as  a  "petite  soci^te,"  and  owning  to  feeling 
ennuyee. 

It  appeared  that,  though  the  young  man  had 
made  no  explicit  declaration  to  either,  Hono- 
rine had  the  parents  in  her  favor.  They  con- 
stantly invited  and  encouraged  her,  and  told 
her  they  should  much  prefer  her  to  Louise  as  a 
daughter-in-law.  Perhaps  Louise  being  Swiss 
and  Protestant  had  something  to  do  with  it; 
also,  though  much  the  prettier,  she  was  less  act- 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  339 

ive  and  laborious  than  Honorine,  and  was  oft- 
en not  neatly  ckaussee,  which  is  a  point  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  the  French  mind,  high 
and  low. 

What  Honorine's  secret  feelings  might  be 
she  had  too  much  feminine  finesse  to  betray. 
She  went  about  her  work  cheerfully  and  stout- 
ly as  ever,  and  seemed  completely  mistress  of 
her  will  and  thoughts.  Hippolyte,  too,  was 
cautious ;  on  hearing  that  she  was  going  to 
Paris,  he  only  said,  "  C'est  malheureux,"  and 
that  he  should  come  and  see  her.  Honorine, 
indeed,  always  maintained  "  qu'il  n'etait  ni 
pour  elle,  ni  pour  Louise,  qu'il  etait  trop  riche, 
qu'il  ne  regarderait  pas  les  domestiques,'7  and 
that  therefore  she  never  thought  of  him,  "  au- 
cunement ;"  even  affirming  —  Heaven  pardon 
her  the  falsehood ! — that  if  she  were  never  to 
see  him  again  she  would  care  no  more  than 
the  first  day  she  met  him.  As  for  his  inten- 
tions, however,  as  the  conferences  were  more 
frequent  and  prolonged  than  ever,  I  could 
only  hope  that  she  was  deceiving  us,  and  that 
he  was  not  deceiving  her.  I  should  like,  I 
thought,  to  see  Honorine  mistress — in  prospect, 
at  least — of  a  very. pretty  homestead,  with  gar- 
den, orchard,  meadows,  cow,  cider-press,  a  nice 
house,  charming  granaries,  well-stocked  farm- 


340  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO. 

yard,  and  "  every  thing  to  make   life  desir- 
able." 

A  day  or  two  before  we  left  Lea  Eosiers  M. 
Charlier  came  down  to  go  over  the  inventory 
with  us,  and,  we  supposed,  to  fleece  us  accord- 
ingly. Knowing  by  Paris  experience  how 
keen-eyed  and  exacting  are  French  jprojprie- 
taireSj  we  were  surprised,  on  the  whole,  at  his 
moderation.  At  any  rate,  the  affair  was  court- 
eously conducted,  which  it  might  not  have 
been  by  his  sharper  wife.  Honorine  attended, 
bristling  her  feathers,  fiercely  on  the  watch 
to  do  battle  for  us,  and  full  of  the  most  repub- 
lican equality  in  manners  and  language  with 
M.  Charlier,  whom  she  considered  neither  juste 
nor  raisonnable.  In  one  matter,  where  she  ac- 
cused him  of  having  gone  back  from  his  prom- 
ise, she  afterwards  mimicked,  with  great  spirit, 
the  scene  which  she  conceived  to  have  taken 
place  between  him  and  the  "  dame  a  Paris,"- 
whom  she  justly  regarded  as  his  prompter,  and 
gave  especially  her  termagant  tones  and  furi- 
ous advice.  She  expressed  utter  scorn  of  his 
subjugation  to  his  wife;  -a  man,  she  says, 
should  never  allow  a  woman  any  part  in  his 
affairs,  and  especially  should  never  break  his 
promise  for  a  woman.  A  woman's  word,  says 
she,  "c'est  frivole,  ce  n'est  rien,"  but  a  man's 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  341 

ought  always  to  be  sacred.  On  these  subjects 
her  views  certainly  differed  much  from  those 
of  Constance,  a  former  servant  of  ours — a  sen- 
sitive creature,  of  fiery  temperament,  vehement 
convictions,  and  esprit  almost  amounting  to 
genius.  She  stood  up  earnestly  for  her  own 
sex;  and  when  I  repeated  to  her  a  French 
gentleman's  assertion  that  in  every  French 
household  the  women  governed,  she  said, 
"Very  true,  and  quite  right  too,"  and  strength- 
ened her  opinion  by  historical  and  political  ex- 
amples. "  Yoyez  Napoleon,"  she  said;  "did 
not  all  go  wrong  with  him  when  he  divorced 
Josephine?  And  when  Madame  Adelaide 
died,  did  not  Louis  Philippe  fall  into  errors 
and  lose  his  throne  ?" 

But  I  must  return  to  Les  Eosiers — only, 
however,  to  leave  it,  for  we  set  off  at  last,  with 
every  incident  that  could  unsentimentalize  our 
parting.  A  foggy,  drizzling,  unlovely  day  hid 
from  sight  all  the  beauties  that  winter  had 
spared  to  our  knolls  and  dells ;  and  we  had  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  in  the  demenagemeni,  as 
the  man  who  undertook  it  did  not  perform  it 
properly.  Hence  ensued  a  farewell  scene  of 
French  screaming — the  same  thing  said  fifty 
times  over,  only  in  different  accents  and  with 
different  gestures,  and  tempers,  to  judge  from 


342  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

appearances,  all  boiling  over  to  exasperation. 
Honorine's  withering  "  C'est  ridicule"  was 
promptly  applied  ;  but  at  last  she  judged  the 
case  too  bad  for  even  that,  and  stood  by  in 
silence  with  her  arms  crossed  —  the  last  and 
most  desperate  resource  of  French  sensibility. 
The  porteuse  d'eau,  who  had  been  trying  to  out- 
bargain us  in  the  morning,  moved  by  a  small 
present,  testified  so  much  sympathy  for  us  as 
also  to  stand  by  with  her  hands  under  her 
apron.  A  hint  from  Honorine  about  going  to 
the  maire  finally  brought  the  voiturier  to  rea- 
son, and,  fetching  a  second  cart,  he  took  away 
the  effects  and  herself,  who  I  hope  forbore 
from  quarrelling  with  him  all  the  way  up  to 
Paris. 

We  waited  a  long  while  at  the  a  liltoile  du 
Nord,"  and  might  have  waited  forever,  our 
driver  having  no  idea  of  keeping  his  appoint- 
ment. He  had  gone  off  instead  to  St.  Cloud, 
where  there  was  a  concourse  of  people, 
"gone,"  said  Madame  Allard,  "to  fetch  Louis 
Napoleon  to  Paris."  This  suddenly  recalled 
to  us  the  little  insignificant  fact  that  the  Em- 
pire was  to  be  proclaimed  that  day.  So  we 
waited  for  the  omnibus,  and  discoursed  with 
the  jolly  old  landlady,  who  was  very  conver- 
sationally disposed,  and  who,  while  eating  her 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  343 

dinner  without  any  discomposure,  and  with 
hearty  enjoyment,  gave  us  worlds  of  gossip  on 
all  possible  subjects.  I  began  with  inquiries 
after  her  newly -married  daughter,  who,  she 
assured  us,  was  perfectly  happy,  pleased  with 
Paris,  her  lodgings,  her  husband,  who  was 
very  good  to  her,  and  a  fort  aimable  garcon. 
"  Je  vous  assure,  madame,"  she  said,  "  qu'il 
n'est  pas  possible  d'avoir  plus  de  bonheur." 

Musing  on  the  varieties  of  female  destiny, 
we  went  on  our  journey,  and  in  a  few  hours 
were  installed  in  our  pleasant  appartement  in 
the  Eue  St.  Dominique ;  and  from  that  time 
Les  Eosiers,  with  its  green,  sunny  solitudes,  its 
woods  and  gardens,  its  roses  and  orange-trees, 
was  no  more  to  us  than  a  dream. 

I  may  as  well  here  wind  up  Honorine's  af- 
faire de  cceur,  which  began  like  a  true  ro- 
mance, and  ended — like  a  French  one.  One 
day  Hippolyte  came  to  see  her  at  Paris,  and 
brought  her  flowers.  Another  day  Louise 
came,  and  talked  earnestly  and  gloomily  with 
her.  The  next  day  she  told  us,  with  scornful 
laughter,  that  M.  Langlois  was  going  to  marry 
a  girl  of  nineteen,  who  had  a  petite  propriete. 
From  that  time  I  withdrew  all  my  interest 
from  the  engaging  }roung  mason,  whom  I  re- 
garded as  an  utter  flirt.     But  as  my  regard  for 


344  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

our  good  Honorine  went  on  increasing,  I  was 
glad  to  learn,  some  time  after  we  had  left 
Paris,  that  she  was  married  to  a  man  whom 
she  described  as  the  "rneilleur  homme  du 
monde,"  and  that  she  had  "bien  tombe  dans 
son  mariage." 


SIBYL'S  LOT— AND  MINE.  345 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SIBYL'S  LOT — AND   MINE. 

OUR  life  in  Paris  this  second  winter  was 
just  like  the  last,  except  that  we  beheld 
the  Empire  proclaimed  and  the  emperor  mar- 
ried. I  shall  not  soon  forget  my  momentary 
vision  of  that  young  girl  Eugenie  hurrying 
along  the  shining  quays  to  her  strange  fate, 
and  to  the  dangerous  palace  that  beckoned  her 
onward — a  snow-pale  bride,  from  head  to  foot 
white  as  a  lily,  with  a  look  of  misgiving,  even 
terror,  on  her  fair  face,  that  suggested  she  would 
fain  have  driven  back  again.  Well,  she  was 
nothing  to  us,  and  we  had  our  own  cares  and 
pleasures,  hopes  and  regrets.  One  trouble  was 
that  we  now  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  M. 
Emile.  He  had  been  relegated,  as  he  expect- 
ed, to  a  garrison  town  in  a  remote  department, 
and,  as  we  did  not  expect,  had  ceased  to  cor- 
respond with  us. 

As  for  our  other  friends,  some  changes  were 
going  on  among  them.  Hermine  had  married 
her  elderly  comte,  and  was  a  leader  of  Paris 
fashion — just  the  gay,  spirituelle,  dazzling  little 


346  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

dame  that  I  had  anticipated.  She  kept  up 
scanty  relations  with  us,  whom  in  truth  she 
had  never  been  really  fond  of,  having  proba- 
bly never  quite  forgiven  her  lord's  persistent 
admiration  of  Sibyl.  Aurelie  ere  long  fulfill- 
ed my  half-formed  expectation,  and  is  now  the 
wife  of  my  cousin  Horace.  I  hope  she  had 
for  him  something  more  than  the  liking  she 
professed  to  consider  sufficient  in  marriage ;  at 
any  rate  she  is  an  excellent  and  attached  wife, 
and,  if  perhaps  a  little  condescending,  and  dis- 
posed in  a  quiet  way  to  manage  for  them  both, 
fulfills  all  her  duties  as  I  should  have  expect- 
ed from  an  upright  and  high-minded  character 
like  hers.  He  has  a  good  foreign  chaplaincy 
in  a  considerable  German  town,  with  a  pleas- 
ant society. 

The  Marquis  de  Clerimont  met  us  in  society 
now  and  then,  but  Sibyl  was  so  decidedly  chill- 
ing that  he  could  not  renew  his  former  possi- 
bly homage.  He  took  to  flirting  with  others, 
and,  I  believe,  at  last  with  all  deliberation  made 
a  mariage  d 'argent. 

And  now  the  time  drew  near  when  I  must 
needs  return  to  my  English  home.  When  at 
last  I  spoke  of  it  decidedly  to  Sibyl,  she  sud- 
denly burst  into  tears,  and  exclaimed,  "Bea- 
trice, I  must  go  to  England  with  you." 


SIBYL'S  LOT— AND  MINE.  347 

A  cold  trembling  seized  me ;  at  first  I  was 
bewildered  —  the  next  moment  I  understood. 
After  some  fencing  in  the  dark,  some  broken 
words  and  attempted  reserves,  she  told  all  her 
story,  iSmile  had  loved  her — as  she  believed 
and  as  she  said — intensely,  and  she  had  refused 
him.  This  happened  just  before  we  left  Paris 
for  Les  Eosiers. 

I  asked  her  why  she  had  done  it? 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "I  thought 
him  too  young,  I  believe;  and  then  I  had  al- 
ways said  so  positively  that  I  should  never 
marry  again,  certainly  not  a  Frenchman.  I 
wanted  to  return  to  my  English  life,  and  to 
shake  myself  free  from  the  Fleury  family.  I 
suppose  he  had  not  then  quite  laid  hold  of 
my  heart ;  anyhow  I  refused  him ;  I  believe  I 
even  got  angry  with  him.  I  had  forbidden 
him  to  say  any  more  about  it;  and  I  believe 
at  Les  Eosiers  he  felt  quite  hopeless.  He  cer- 
tainly never  ventured,  even  by  a  look,  to  be- 
tray any  feeling — and  yet,  Beatrice,  I  was  be- 
ginning then  to  be  haunted  by  him." 

'•But  the  marquis?"  I  inquired. 

Sibyl  colored  very  pailffully,  hesitated,  and 
said,  "  I  tried  to  divert  my  thoughts,  which 
were  sometimes  loo  bitter,  and  I  believe  in  my 
pride  I  wanted  to  disguise  them  from  Simile, 


348  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

whom  I  was  almost  provoked  with  for  not  in 
the  least  trying  again  to  win  me.  But  I  could 
not  go  on,  and,  after  Emile  had  gone,  I  con- 
trived without  any  actual  eclaircissement  to  put 
an  end  to  the  affair.  I  was  very  wrong,  I 
know,  in  thus  playing  false  to  my  heart,  and 
I  knew  I  deceived  others.  I  saw  that  you 
noticed  my  sadness  after  the  marquis  left,  and 
mistook  the  cause.  But  I  knew  I  had  done 
him  no  harm — as  for  others,  I  hope  not.  Bea- 
trice," she  added,  after  a  pause,  "did  lilmile 
ever  make  love  to  you?" 

"  Never !"  I  earnestly  replied. 

"Well,"  she  resumed,  "that  was  another 
thing  —  another  complication  going  on  at  the 
same  time.  I  saw  him,  as  I  thought,  about  to 
console  himself  with  you,  and  I  tried  to  be 
pleased  to  think  it  was  all  very  right,  and  to 
hope  that  you  would  like  him.  But  that,  too, 
I  found  I  could  not  do;  which  first  showed 
me  the  whole  truth — and  oh  how  I  cried  all 
those  weary  weeks!  But  I  felt  piqued,  and 
only  made  myself  more  cold  and  disagreeable, 
and  in  that  one  last  visit — do  you  remember 
it  ?  —  when  he  was  so  changed,  I  almost  felt 
to  dislike  him.  Oh,  Beatrice !  how  men  and 
women  do  misunderstand  and  plague  each 
other!" 


SIBYL'S  LOT— AND  MINE.  349 

"  Can  nothing  be  done?"  I  asfed. 

Sibyl  shook  her  head.  "It  has  gone  too 
far,"  she  said ;  "he  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
it  at  last,  and  I  have  no  right  to  torment  him 
any  more." 

Yet  a  kind  of  opening  was  given,  which  I 
ventured  to  avail  myself  of.  Emile  kept  up 
some  correspondence  with  our  good  friends 
Aurelie  and  her  mother,  and  in  a  letter  of  the 
latter's  I  inserted  a  kind  message,  which  pro- 
duced one  or  two  letters  from  him.  In  the 
last  of  these  he  spoke  plainly.  He  used,  in 
speaking  of  Sibyl,  language  of  the  tenderest, 
even  the  most  passionate  admiration ;  but  he 
avowed  that  he  had  given  her  up. 

"  I  have  loved  her,  I  acknowledge,"  he  said. 
"One  does  not  see  so  beautiful  a  thing  for 
nothing.  At  once,  before  one  has  thought  of 
loving  her,  she  becomes,  for  wonder  and  for 
worship,  the  Venus — what  do  I  say? — the 
Madonna  of  one's  imaginings.  Henceforth  in 
one's  most  aerial  dreams,  in  life's  strangest 
events,  in  the  world's  most  exciting  commo- 
tions, one  places  in  the  midst  that  figure  of 
divine  gayety  and  grace ;  across  all  storms  she 
shoots  like  a  lightning-glance;  in  play  or  poem 
she  is  the  enchanting  heroine.  You  will  think 
me  raving;  but  in  truth  Sibyl  seems  to  me  a 


350  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

being  one  might  see  but  once,  and  go  mad  on 
the  remembrance  of.  I  never  saw — I  may  just 
have  imagined — such  a  woman,  but  my  dream 
did  not  half  paint  her ;  the  reality  adds  ever  a 
light,  a  shade  that  I  could  not  have  divined. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  enough  to  sit 
and  watch  her  for  life. 

"  Now  that  I  have  said  all  this,  mademoiselle, 
I  must  add  that  I  have  wholly  given  up  the 
hope  of  marrying  her.  The  very  extravagance 
of  my  language  is  a  proof  that  my  feeling  is 
not  one  on  which  to  ground  a  life-long  union. 
I  could  not  make  such  a  woman  happy ;  she 
could  never  love  me,  and  would  have  a  thou- 
sand wants  that  my  inferior  nature  would  not 
supply.  I  trust  you,  therefore,  not  to  betray 
to  her  what  I  have  just  said;  I  should  blush 
for  her  to  read  the  ravings  of  such  a  delirium. 
And  if  I  were  tempted  to  try  to  work  on  her 
feelings,  and  create  an  affection  she  is  now  far 
from  having  for  me,  I  should  be  only  selfish. 
My  prospects  are  too  unsettled.  I  am  coming 
to  a  crisis.  My  former  enemy  has  gained  the 
ear  of  the  Minister  of  War ;  an  order  of  arrest 
was  once  actually  made  out  against  me,  and  its 
execution  was  only  delayed  by  the  good  offices 
of  a  friend.  But  if  I  do  not  fall  in  this  coming 
campaign,  which  is  very  probable,  and  which  I 


SIBYL'S  LOT— AND  MINE.  351 

shall  not  much  regret,  I  shall  be  a  deporte  to 
Cayenne,  and  I  could  not  possibly  even  wish 
to  associate  a  tender  creature  like  your  sis- 
ter with  such  a  lot.  No,  I  have  subdued  the 
worst  of  my  pain,  and  have  resigned  a  vision 
which  probably  could  never  have  been  real- 
ized." 

I  wondered  that  Simile  should  not  have  dis- 
covered, under  the  ideal  charm  of  Sibyl's  ex- 
terior, that,  with  her  warm  tender  heart  and 
sweet  temper,  she  was  the  easiest  possible 
person  to  live  with — that  she  was  thoroughly 
bonne  enfant  I  also  felt  that  such  romantic 
idealization  prevented  one's  judging  of  the 
real  seriousness  and  depth  of  his  attachment, 
which  alone  could  justify  a  great  sacrifice  on 
Sibyl's  part. 

Bound  by  his  injunction,  I  read  only  the 
latter  part  of  this  letter  to  Sibyl,  expressing, 
however,  my  own  conviction  of  his  undying 
attachment.  But  she  only  answered,  mourn- 
fully, "  It  must  not  be  altered ;  it  is  best  as 
it  is."  She  was,  perhaps,  secretly  hurt  at  his 
tone  of  complete  acquiescence  to  fate. 

We  went  to  England,  and  there  from  time 
to  time  we  heard  of  Emile — once  heard  from 
himself;  and  I  judged  with  pain,  from  various 
indications,  that  something — I  know  not  if  I 


852  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

should  call  it  deterioration,  but  something  that 
took  from  the  fresh  charm  of  his  nature — was 
growing  upon  him.  His  «  cynical  bitterness 
was  now  a  fixed  quality ;  he  assumed  a  hard, 
worldly  tone ;  he  seemed  to  despair  of  every 
thing ;  his  past,  he  said,  was  "  mort  et  ense- 
veli,"  and  he  did  not  wish  to  revive  it.  He 
ridiculed  his  youthful  enthusiasms,  and  ex- 
pressed a  disbelief  in  all  goodness ;  he  was  not 
gloomily  or  ostentatiously  misanthropic,  but 
quietly  and  coldly  cynical. 

One  thing  was  certain  ;  he  still  never  bowed 
the  knee  in  Kimmon's  temple ;  indeed,  his  con- 
tempt for  those  who  did — that  is,  for  the  socie- 
ty he  lived  amidst — was  only  too  marked  for 
his  safety.  And  with  all  this  alteration,  there 
was  yet  in  him,  as  his  friends  described,  at 
times  a  fascination  beyond  that  of  a  roman- 
tic and  ardent  youth — beautiful  flashes,  like 
magic  northern  lights,  across  his  desolate  win- 
tery  life. 

Well,  I  must  not  linger  over  this  painful 
period.  The  crisis  came  in  a  year  or  two.  A 
small  fraternity  of  ardent  liberals  had  for  some 
time  been  watched  by  the  Government ;  one 
of  these,  more  indiscreet  than  the  others,  had 
let  drop  in  public  words  betraying  revolution- 
ary  designs.      Simile,  who   was   not   compro- 


SIBYL'S  LOT— AND  MINE.  353 

mised,  and  could  have  escaped,  rallied  to  his 
friend's  side,  did  his  best  first  to  save  him,  and 
then  to  share  his  doom.  Both  were  arrested, 
and,  after  a  brief  though  rigorous  imprison- 
ment, Emile  was  degraded  from  his  rank  in  the 
army  and  sent  en  perpetuite  to  Algeria. 

He  had  wished  not  to  let  us  know  his  fate ; 
oppressed  by  sadness  and  consequent  ill  health, 
he  had  expected  soon  to  die  there,  and  de- 
sired that  we  should  not  be  saddened  with 
the  knowledge.  But  Sibyl's  loving  vigilance 
could- not  be  balked,  nor  could  his  heroic  con- 
duct, which  she  contrived  to  discover  from 
his  friends,  fail  to  nerve  that  tender  nature 
to  equal  heroism. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Beatrice,"  she  said,  "  that  all 
doubt  is  put  an  end  to  now ;  for  the  future  I 
feel  that  my  place  is  by  fimile ;  and  oh,  if  I 
can  in  any  way  soothe  or  help  him,  what  a 
blessing  will  he  not  be  to  me !  If  there  is  any 
thing  good  and  noble  in  me — I  am  sure  I  have 
given  little  reason  to  suppose  there  is  —  he 
awakened  and  called  it  forth." 

Sibyl  and  I — I  could  not  leave  her  now — 
went  accordingly  to  Algeria,  under  the  care 
of  Horace  and  his  wife.  Simile  and  she  were 
married,  and  love  each  other  to  this  day  with 
that  love  which  alone  suffices  for  happiness. 
Z 


354  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

He  has  at  last  returned  to  his  crushed,  tor- 
tured, distracted  France,  to  do  for  her  what  a 
man  may. 

*  *  *  #  #'         * 

This  sentence — added  lately — forms  a  fit 
conclusion  to  my  old  journal  of  twenty  years 
ago.  Of  course  all  is  changed  since  then — ex- 
cept that  what  was  my  principal  interest  then 
has  resulted  now  in  the  perfect  union  of  two 
well-matched  and  beautiful  natures.  I  myself 
have  not  been  so  happy.  I  do  not  complain, 
nor  greatly  wonder ;  under  the  apparently  ran- 
dom destinies  of  various  individualities  there 
is  a  moral  order,  clear  as  inevitable,  did  we 
but  know  it.  Sibyl's  nature  was  one  predes- 
tined to  and  deserving  happiness.  The  unself- 
ish sweetness,  the  patient  serenity  with  which 
she  accepted  life  and  its  cares,  in  the  end  usu- 
ally secure  the  smiles  of  that  not  quite  irra- 
tional divinity,  Fortune.  I  was  different.  I 
am  Beatrice  Walford  still,  and  I  have  fetched 
all  these  pictures  of  the  past  out  of  ghost-land. 


THE    END. 


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Books  by  the  Abbotts. 


HARPER'S   STORY   BOOKS. 

A  Series  of  Narratives,  Biographies,  and  Tales,  for  the  In- 
struction  and  Entertainment  of  the  Young.  By  Jacob  Ab- 
bott. Embellished  with  more  than  One  Thousand  beauti- 
ful Engravings.  Square  4 to,  complete  in  12  large  Volumes, 
or  86  small  ones. 

"  Harper's  Story  Books"  can  be  obtained  complete  in  Twelve 
Volumes,  bound  in  blue  and  gold,  each  one  containing  Three  Sto- 
ries, for  $21 00,  or  in  Thirty-six  thin  Volumes,  bound  in  crimson  and 
gold,  each  containing  One  Story,  for  $32  40.  The  volumes  may  be 
had  separately— the  large  ones  at  $1  75  each,  the  others  at  90  cents 
each. 

VOL.  I. 
BRUNO ; '  or,  Lessons  of  Fidelity,  Patience,  and  Self-De- 

nial  Taught  by  a  Dog. 
WILLIE  AND  THE  MORTGAGE  :    showing  How 

Much  may  be  Accomplished  by  a  Boy. 
THE  STRAIT  GATE;  or,  The  Rule  of  Exclusion  from 

Heaven. 

VOL.  II.  # 

THE   LITTLE   LOUVRE;   or,  The  Boys'  and  Girls' 

Picture-Gallery. 
PRANK ;  or,  The  Philosophy  of  Tricks  and  Mischief. 
EMMA ;  or,  The  Three  Misfortunes  of  a  Belle. 

VOL.  III. 

VIRGINIA  ;  or,  A  Little  Light  on  a  Very  Dark  Saying. 

TIMBOO  AND  JOLIBA  ;  or,  The  Art  cf  Being  Useful. 

TIMBOO  AND  FANNY;  or,  The  Art  of  Self-Instruc- 
tion. 

VOL.  IV. 

THE  HARPER  ESTABLISHMENT;  or,  How  the 
Story  Books  are  Made. 

FRANKLIN,  the  Apprentice-Boy. 

THE  STUDIO  ;  or,  Illustrations  of  the  Theory  and  Prac- 
tice of  Drawing,  for  Young  Artists  at  Home. 

VOL.  V. 

THE  STORY  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY,  from  the 
Earliest  Periods  to  the  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 

THE  STORY  OF  ENGLISH  HISTORY,  from  the 
Earliest  Periods  to  the  American  Revolution. 

THE  STORY  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY,  from 
the  Earliest  Settlement  of  the  Country  to  the  Establish- 
ment of  the  Federal  Constitution. 


Books  by  the  Abbotts. 


VOL.  VI. 
JOHN  TRUE  ;  or,  The  Christian  Experience  of  an  Hon- 
est Boy. 
ELFRED  ;  or,  The  Blind  Boy  and  his  Pictures. 
THE  MUSEUM ;  or,  Curiosities  Explained. 

VOL.  VII. 
THE  ENGINEER ;  or,  How  to  Travel  in  the  Woods. 
RAMBLES  AMONG-  THE  ALPS. 
THE  THREE  GOLD  DOLLARS ;  or,  An  Account  of 
the  Adventures  of  Robin  Green. 

VOL.  VIII. 
THE   GIBRALTAR  GALLERY:  being  an  Account 

of  various  Things  both  Curious  and  Useful. 
THE  ALCOVE :  containing  some  Farther  Account  of 

Timboo,  Mark,  and  Fanny. 
DIALOGUES   for  the  Amusement  and  Instruction  of 

Young  Persons. 

VOL.  IX. 
THE  GREAT  ELM ;  or,  Robin  Green  and  Josiah  Lane 

at  School. 
AUNT    MARGARET;  or,  How  John  True  kept  his 

Resolutions. 
VERNON;  or,  Conversations  about  Old  Times  in  England. 

VOL.  X. 
CARL  AND  JOCKO ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  the  Little 

Italian  Boy  and  his  Monkey. 
LAP  ST  ONE ;  or,  The  Sailor  turned  Shoemaker. 
ORKNEY,. THE  PEACEMAKER;  or,  The  Various 

Ways  of  Settling  Disputes. 

VOL.  XL 
JUDGE  JUSTIN;  or,  The  Little  Court  of  Morningdale. 
MINIGO  ;  or,  The  Fairy  of  Cairnstone  Abbey. 
JASPER ;  or,  The  Spoiled  Child  Recovered. 

VOL.  XII. 
CONGO ;  or,  Jasper's  Experience  in  Command. 
VIOLA  and  her  Little  Brother  Arno. 
LITTLE  PAUL ;  or,  How  to  be  Patient  in  Sickness  and 
Pain. 

Some  of  the  Story  Books  are  written  particularly  for  girls,  and 
some  for  Boys,  and  the  different  Volumes  are  adapted  to  various 
ac:es,  so  that  the  work  forms  a  Complete  Library  of  Story  Books  for 
all  the  Children  of  the  Family  and  the  Sunday-School. 


Books  by  the  Abbotts. 


ABBOTTS'  ILLUSTRATED  HISTORIES. 

Biographical  Histories.  By  Jacob  Abbott  and  John  S. 
C.  Abbott.  The  Volumes  of  this  Series  are  printed  and 
bound  uniformly,  and  are  embellished  with  numerous  Engrav- 
ings. 16mo,  Cloth,  $1  20  per  volume.  Price  of  the  set  (32 
vols.),  $38  40. 

A  series  of  volumes  containing  severally  full  accounts  of  the  lives, 
characters,  and  exploits  of  the  most  distinguished  sovereigns,  po- 
tentates, and  rulers  that  have  heen  chiefly  renowned  among  man- 
kind, in  the  various  ages  of  the  world,  from  the  earliest  periods  to 
the  present  day. 

The  successive  volumes  of  the  series,  though  they  each  contain 
the  life  of  a  single  individual,  and  constitute  thus  a  distinct  and  in- 
dependent work,  follow  each  other  in  the  main,  in  regular  historical 
order,  and  each  one  continues  the  general  narrative  of  history  down 
to  the  period  at  which  the  next  volume  takes  up  the  story ;  so  that 
the  whole  series  presents  to  the  reader  a  connected  narrative  of  the 
line  of  general  history  from  the  present  age  hack  to  the  remotest 
times. 

The  narratives  are  intended  to  he  succinct  and  comprehensive,  and 
are  written  in  a  very  plain  and  simple  style.  They  are,  however,  not 
juvenile  in  their  character,  nor  intended  exclusively  for  the  young. 
The  volumes  are  sufficiently  large  to  allow  each  history  to  comprise 
all  the  leading  facts  in  the  life  of  the  personage  who  is  the  subject 
of  it,  and  thus  to  communicate  all  the  information  in  respect  to  him 
which  is  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  the  general  reader. 

Such  being  the  design  and  character  of  the  works,  they  would 
seem  to  be  specially  adapted,  not  only  for  family  reading,  but  also 
for  district,  town,  school,  and  Sunday-school  libraries,  as  well  as  for 
text-books  in  literary  seminaries. 

The  plan  of  the  series,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  design  has 
been  carried  out  by  the  author  in  the  execution  of  it,  have  been  high- 
ly commended  by  the  press  in  all  parts  of  the  country.  The  whole 
series  has  been  introduced  into  the  school  libraries  of  several  of  the 
largest  and  most  influential  states. 


Abraham  Lincoln's  Opinion  of  Abbotts'  Histories. — In  a  con- 
versation with  the  President  just  before  his  death,  Mr.  Lincoln  said:  "I 
icant  to  thank  you  and  your  brother  for  Abbotts'  series  of  Histories.  I 
have  not  education  enough  to  appreciate  the  profound  ivorks  of  volu- 
minous historians;  and  if  I  had,  I  have  no  time  to  read  them.  But 
your  series  of  Histories  gives  me,  in  brief  compass,  just  that  knowledge 
of  past  men  and  events  which  I  need.  I  have  read  them  with  the  great- 
est interest.  To  them  I  am  indebted  for  about  all  the  historical  knowl- 
edge 1  have," 


Books  by  the  Abbotts. 


CYRUS  THE  GREAT. 

DARIUS  THE  GREAT. 

XERXES. 

ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

ROMULUS. 

HANNIBAL. 

PYRRHUS. 

JULIUS  CiESAR. 

CLEOPATRA. 

NERO. 

ALFRED  THE  GREAT. 

WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR. 

RICHARD  I. 

RICHARD  II. 

RICHARD  III. 

MARY  QUEEN  OP  SCOTS. 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

CHARLES  I. 

CHARLES  II. 

JOSEPHINE. 

MARIA  ANTOINETTE. 

MADAME  ROLAND. 

HENRY  IV. 

PETER  THE  GREAT. 

GENGHIS  KHAN. 

KING  PHILIP. 

HERNANDO  CORTEZ. 

MARGARET  OF  ANJOU. 

JOSEPH  BONAPARTE. 

QUEEN  HORTENSE. 

LOUIS  XIV. 

LOUIS  PHILIPPE. 


Books  by  the  Abbotts. 


THE   LITTLE  LEARNER  SERIES. 

A  Series  for  Very  Young  Children.  Designed  to  Assist  in 
the  Earliest  Development  of  the  Mind  of  a  Child,  while  under 
its  Mother's  Special  Care,  during  the  first  Five  or  Six  Years 
of  its  Life.  By  Jacob  Abbott.  Beautifully  Illustrated. 
Complete  in  5  Small  4to  Volumes,  Cloth,  90  cents  per  Vol. 
Price  of  the  set,  in  case,  $1  50. 

LEARNING  TO  TALK ;  or,  Entertaining  and  Instruct- 
ive Lessons  in  the  Use  of  Language.     1 70  Engravings. 

LEARNING  TO  THINK  :  consisting  of  Easy  and  En- 
tertaining Lessons,  designed  to  Assist  in  the  First  Unfold- 
ing of  the  Reflective  and  Reasoning  Powers  of  Children. 
120  Engravings. 

LEARNING  TO  READ ;  consisting  of  Easy  and  En- 
tertaining Lessons,  designed  to  Assist  Young  Children  in 
Studying  the  Forms  of  the  Letters,  and  in  beginning  to 
Read.     160  Engravings. 

LEARNING   ABOUT    COMMON   THINGS;  or, 

Familiar  Instruction  for  Children  in  respect  to  the  Ob- 
jects around  them  that  attract  their  Attention  and  awaken 
their  Curiosity  in  the  Earliest  Years  of  Life.  120  En- 
gravings. 

LEARNING  ABOUT  RIGHT  AND  WRONG;  or, 

Entertaining  and  Instructive  Lessons  tor  Young  Children 
in  respect  to  their  Duty.     90  Engravings. 


Books  by  the  Abbotts. 


KINGS  AND   QUEENS. 

KINGS  AND  QUEENS;  or,  Life  in  the  Palace:  con- 
sisting of  Historical  Sketches  of  Josephine  and  Maria  Lou- 
isa, Louis  Philippe,  Ferdinand  of  Austria,  Nicholas,  Isa- 
bella II.,  Leopold,  Victoria,  and  Louis  Napoleon.  By 
John  S.  C.  Abbott.  With  numerous  Illustrations.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  75. 


A  SUMMER  IN  SCOTLAND. 

A  SUMMER  IN  SCOTLAND  •  a  Narrative  of  Ob- 
servations and  Adventures  made  by  the  Author  during  a 
Summer  spent  among  the  Glens  and  Highlands  in  Scot- 
land. By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Illustrated  with  En- 
gravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  SPANISH  HISTORY. 

THE  ROMANCE  OP  SPANISH  HISTORY.    By 

John  S.  C.  Abbott,  Author  of  "The  French  Revolution," 
"The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  &c.  With  Illus- 
trations.    12mo,  Oloth,  $2  00. 


SCIENCE 
FOR  THE  YOUNG. 

By  JACOB   ABBOTT. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS.   . 


HEAT.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50, 

LIGHT.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

WATER  AND  LAND.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


Few  men  enjoy  a  wider  or  better  earned  popularity  as  a  writer 
for  the  young  than  Jacob  Abbott.  His  series  of  histories,  and  sto- 
ries illustrative  of  moral  truths,  have  furnished  amusement  and  in- 
struction to  thousands.  He  has  the  knack  of  piquing  and  gratifying 
curiosity.  In  the  book  before  us  he  shows  his  happy  faculty  of  im- 
parting useful  information  through  the  medium  of  ajpleasant  nar- 
rative, keeping  alive  the  interest  of  the  young  reader,  and  fixing  in 
his  memory  valuable  truths. — Mercury,  New  Bedford,  Mass. 

Jacob  Abbott  is  almost  the  only  writer  in  the  English  language 
who  knows  how  to  combine  real  amusement  with  real  instruction 
in  such  a  manner  that  the  eager  young  readers  are  quite  as  much 
interested  in  the  useful  knowledge  he  imparts  as  in  the  story  which 
he  makes  so  pleasant  a  medium  of  instruction. — Buffalo  Commercial 
Advertiser. 

*  *  *  Mr.  Abbott  has  avoided  the  errors  so  common  with  writers 
for  popular  effect,  that  of  slurring  over  the  difficulties  of  the  subject 
through  the  desire  of  making  it  intelligible  and  attractive  to  un- 
learned readers.  He  never  tampers  with  the  truth  of  science,  nor 
attempts  to  dodge  the  solution  of  a  knotty  problem  behind  a  cloud 
of  plausible  illustrations.—  X.  Y.  Tribune. 


POPULAR  HISTORIES 

BY 

JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT. 


HISTORY  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

The  History  of  Frederick  the  Second,  called  Frederick  the 
Great.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Elegantly  Illustrated. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

The  French  Kevolution  of  1789,  as  Viewed  in  the  Light  of 
Eepublican  Institutions.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  With 
100  Engravings.     8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  By  John  S.  C.  Ab- 
bott. With  Maps,  Woodcuts,  and  Portraits  on  Steel. 
2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  00. 


NAPOLEON  AT  ST.  HELENA. 

Napoleon  at  St.  Helena ;  or,  Interesting  Anecdotes  and  Re- 
markable Conversations  of  the  Emperor  during  the  Five 
and  a  Half  Years  of  his  Captivity.  Collected  from  the 
Memorials  of  Las  Casas,  O'Meara,  Montholon,  Antom- 
marchi,  and  others.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  With  Il- 
lustrations.    8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT. 


CHILD  AT  HOME. 

The  Child  at  Home ;  or,  the  Principles  of  Filial  Duty  famil- 
iarly Illustrated.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Woodcuts*. 
16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

The  duties  and  trials  peculiar  to  the  child  are  explained  and  il- 
lustrated in  this  volume  in  the  same  clear  and  attractive  manner 
in  which  those  of  the  mother  are  set  forth  in  the  "  Mother  at  Home." 
These  two  works  may  be  considered  as  forming  a  complete  manual 
of  filial  and  maternal  relations. 


MOTHER  AT  HOME. 

The  Mother  at  Home ;  or,  the  Principles  of  Maternal  Duty 
familiarly  Illustrated.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Engrav- 
ings.    16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

This  book  treats  of  the  important  questions  of  maternal  responsi- 
bility and  authority  ;  of  the  difficulties  which  the  mother  will  ex- 
perience, the  errors  to  which  she  is  liable,  the  methods  and  plans 
she  should  adopt ;  of  the  religious  instruction  which  she  should 
impart,  and  of  the  results  which  she  may  reasonably  hope  will  fol- 
low her  faithful  and  persevering  exertions.  These  subjects  are 
illustrated  with  the  felicity  characteristic  of  all  the  productions  of 
the  author. 


PRACTICAL  CHRISTIANITY. 

Practical  Christianity.      A  Treatise  specially  designed  for 
Young  Men.     By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.     16mo,  Cloth, 

$1  00. 

It  is  characterized  by  the  simplicity  of  style  and  appositeness  of 
illustration  which  make  a  book  easily  read  and  readily  understood. 
It  is  designed  to  instruct  and  interest  young  men  in  the  effectual 
truths  of  Christianity.  It  comes  down  to  their  plane  of  thought, 
and,  in  a  genial,  conversational  way,  strives  to  lead  them  to  a  life 
of  godliness. — Watchman  and  Reflector. 

It  abounds  in  wise  and  practical  suggestions.—  N.  Y.  Commercial 
Advertiser. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED  | 

EDUCATION-PSYCHOLOGY 
LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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